


Disquiet in the Face of Victory

by oliversnape



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliversnape/pseuds/oliversnape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many sides to choose from in a battle, and not all are settled once the battle is won. Harry fights the growing disquiet in the castle, and brings an embittered Snape back to normality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a two part story, and the second part will be posted sometime later this week. If there's a delay, it will be posted on my profile page. Now, some people (like myself) appreciate warnings, so I will say that there is a character death, but it is NOT Snape or Harry. And it will have a positive ending. Hope you like it!

 Part One

 

He could hear the bangs of the giants attacking the castle, and they vibrated in his mind. He thought he could hear the loud breathing of a giant outside their door, but that couldn’t be because he and Snape were holed up in the dungeons, hidden in an old flat behind three sets of doors. On a lumpy cot, with rubbish blankets that didn’t keep him warm and wouldn’t protect him from the giant outside the door. Ron and Hermione were in the room next to him, and fear seized his heart as he realised that he couldn’t check on them, that the giant would tear him apart as soon as he tried to leave the room. And Snape was still sleeping on the cot next to him, normally within reach but Harry couldn’t reach the cot; his arm wouldn’t move. It lay uselessly on the bed and Harry pleaded in his mind for his arm to move, for his mouth to say anything, just to wake Snape up and feel some measure of safety against the giant that was now knocking down the door…

“Hhhhhheeeuh!” Harry exhaled, his body jerking violently awake out of the nightmare. His heart was racing, and the blue orb nightlights floating around the room did nothing to calm him. The images of the dream were still extremely vivid in his mind; the giant breathing heavily in his search for them, the very same giant who had never made it past the first of the three doors. Harry knew the dreams were his mind’s way of dealing with the terror he’d experienced in the two-day take over of Hogwarts, but he really wished there was another way as he’d woken up every night since feeling terrified.

At least tonight he hadn’t dreamed of the damn snake.

Harry gave his pillow a quick check with his hand, and scrunching his face up at the cold sweat, flipped it over. He flopped back down onto the bed, hoping he could get back to sleep without jumping back into the nightmare. When he was a boy, he used to force himself to take up the nightmare again, and change it to something good before he’d fallen back asleep. But the problem now was that the entire two-day hostility had been an absolute horror. He couldn’t steer his dream to a happier route, because there hadn’t been one. He, Ron, Hermione, Snape, and two other order members had hidden in the lower dungeons, in an abandoned professor’s flat that hadn’t been used in a good fifty years. After a solid forty-two hour fight and standoff, it was agreed that some would stand guard whilst others slept, and that’s when it had happened.

The lower dungeons had been flooded, and though the classrooms and dorms mostly had anti-impervious spells on them (they were, after all, dungeons under and near a giant lake), the students in the hallways had not been that fortunate.

Harry wiped at the tears forming in his eyes, thinking of Dean and Seamus, and how no one had known they had been down there looking for Harry. Of the countless others that had thought below ground was the safest place to hide.

Fuck. Harry sat up again, rubbing his tired eyes. There was no way he was getting back to sleep now, not if he continued to remember what had happened. An image of Snape popped up in his mind; of Nagini slithering into their hiding room, of Snape writhing, of blood.

Pushing the covers angrily back, Harry jumped out of bed and turned on the radio. At least the music would give him something to think about.

….

The halls of Hogwarts had a certain taste to them. Depending on where he was walking, Harry could taste the chalky dust particles in the air of the upper towers, which were still swirling invisibly about from the battered roofs and walls. The main entrance and grand stairs had more of an antique taste to it, from the smashed and torn apart portraits and frames. Up on the seventh floor, near the Room of Requirement, there was a distinctly ashy taste from where a fire had barrelled through the halls, burning tapestries, rugs, sconces, and anything, or anyone, else in sight.  
  
When he passed to the stairs to the dungeons, Harry imagined he could taste the essence of Newgate gaol at its busiest point, before the Great Fire of London. The stones were damp, mouldy, and the flagstone, smoothed from centuries of Hogwarts students, was slimy from the muck of the Black Lake. Sconces sputtered and fought to stay lit, and the portraits had all been abandoned. Tapestries hung heavily and dank, and the doors were damp and soft to Harry's touch.  
  
The oppressive dark and dampness of the lower dungeons had a bitter taste, and Harry imagined his classmates caught behind the twisted corridors and locked doors, like Newgate, scrambling to find freedom.  When the siege of Hogwarts had reached it's fiercest, and the students had retreated to the heart of the castle for safety, no one had imagined that Voldemort would focus on the Black Lake. Within minutes a massive volume of water had surged through the underground chambers and completely flooded the lower dungeons.  
  
Harry threw a lumos spell down one spiral staircase, down to where he knew Snape's classroom had been. The light was swallowed by the dark, wet air, and Harry strongly exhaled. The house elves had cleared the water, and searched for survivors. Beyond that, Harry knew that no one would touch the lower dungeons until the rest of the castle had been healed.

He still walked by the silent staircases on his way to the Great Hall, feeling like he was a child again and needed to pass the darkened hall to the loo in the dead of the night, steeling himself to not look at the kitchen door. It was an ordinary kitchen during the day, ordinary like the Slytherin dormitories were, down under the lake where they housed beds and couches and solace to generations of Slytherins, and yet there was an uneasy feeling in the distance between them. Harry felt the pinpricks on his skin as he looked down, feeling much like there was a malevolent sense to the air, something around that did not have his wellbeing in mind.

A flash of movement caught in the furthest corner of his eye and Harry’s gaze snapped toward it, searching through the darkness to see what had made the movement. He waited a full two minutes, but not even any of the Hogwarts ghosts made itself known. Just as Harry turned to leave, the movement happened again and Harry’s mouth dropped open in silent horror as he saw a pasty white head emerging out of the blackness, with stringy dirty hair and malevolent eyes.

“What are you staring at, boy?” Argus Filch demanded, spittle on his lips as he tucked something into his robe pockets.

“Nothing,” Harry said, regaining his wit as he realised who it was. “I didn’t know anyone had gone down there. I thought it was warded.”

Filch sneered at him.

“I am the caretaker of this school,” Filch proclaimed. “I will go wherever I want.”

“Right, sir,” Harry blandly replied. Filch was still Filch, regardless of the war, and Harry felt it was a waste of time to argue with the man  
  
He shook the thoughts of ghosts and hidden chambers out of his mind and headed to the Great Hall. Meals were served at the regular times, and a healthy amount of people had stayed on at Hogwarts to make sure the school would be fully functional for the new school year. With so many wounded, with the losses, it seemed important for nearly everyone that they had a goal to focus on. And so, it was determined that Hogwarts would be ready for September.  
  
Harry entered through one of the side doors, preferring to not draw as much attention to himself as he could. The Great Hall tasted of sunshine - it had for the past three weeks since Filius Flitwick had been healed enough to fix the stained glass windows in the hall. Together with McGonagall, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Flitwick had spent three hours working with them to charm the ceiling again. Headmaster Snape, dressed in his regular severe black and most of his bandage wrappings concealed by his voluminous robes, had watched them intently.   
  
“Morning, Harry,” Hermione quietly greeted, as he slipped into his seat near the front of the room. The house tables had been placed back to their original positions, for the most part, but the scorch marks and gouges in the tables hadn’t been repaired. No one sat by house, however, preferring to eat in the small groups of survivors that they were.

She passed him a cup of coffee, liberally adding milk to take off the bitterness, and poured the same for Ron. Ron had nodded his hello, but his focus was on the next table over, half way down the room, where his sister was angrily stabbing at her rashers of bacon with a fork.

“Still no improvement with her arm?” Harry asked, selecting the plainest scone he could from the basket the house elves had provided.

“No,” Ron finally answered.  “The new season doesn’t start until October, of course. But there’s training over the summer, and if she can’t…”

He trailed off, watching Ginny again. Ginny’s right arm was resting motionlessly on the table, though Ginny was glaring at it and most likely muttering curses and dark threats at it. No one had seen her cursed, and Madame Pomfrey hadn’t been able to successfully fix her arm either.

“We’re going to the library later today,” Hermione added, now watching Ginny as well.

Harry couldn’t fault that, and as much as he wanted to hug Ginny, fix her arm, make it so she could stay on a broomstick again, he knew he couldn’t. He may have been the defeater of Voldemort, but he knew he couldn’t reverse curses.

That was the one lesson that Harry felt he’d probably learned best out of his entire time in the wizarding community. Magic doesn’t fix everything.

“Hermione,” Harry asked, carefully spreading jam on his scone. “Speaking of the library. Is it possible for someone to feel dark magic?”

“I’m not sure,” she answered. “Magic is made up of elements from the earth, and humans are receptive to changes in the air, to the water, the temperature, to things like that. If someone were attuned to the pressure in the air, and studies have been done that spells passing through the air change…”

“Dammit!”

Ginny’s outburst silenced the room and heads swivelled to see her seated at the table, her shirt covered in orange juice and the goblet she’d been trying to hold with her hand dented.

Hermione flinched, as if to move, but Ron grasped her forearm gently and prevented it.

“Leave her,” he strongly suggested. “She’ll only accept help from Neville. And Harry, that feeling of gooseflesh, at night? The pinpricks on the back of your neck? Mum’s always said that was dark magic.”

“Why Neville?” Hermione asked, ignoring Ron’s unscientific answer.

“Because it was Neville last year,” Ron cryptically explained. “Did you find a leftover curse somewhere, Harry?”

“I don’t think it’s a curse,” Harry said, taking a large bite of scone. As he chewed, he glanced to the front of the room and watched Snape methodically slice whatever he was having for breakfast. Though still the headmaster, Snape was not sitting at the middle of the staff table, but was instead in the corner, where he’d normally sat as a professor. He’d been given a wide berth by his colleagues, and didn’t seem to be too annoyed about eating his meal in silence. Or perhaps it was just what he was accustomed to.

“Whenever I walk by any of the stairs to the lower dungeons, I can feel something there. Something in the darkness.”

He kept his eyes on his plate, spearing a slice of pear and popping it into his mouth with a bit of bacon.

“A lot of people died there, Harry,” Hermione softly said. “It could just be ghosts.”

“I’m not sure,” Harry said, not wanting to get into details at the breakfast table. “When we went to Nearly Headless Nick’s death day party it didn’t feel the same. I’ll just…I’ll talk to McGonagall later.”

“And Headmaster Snape,” Hermione agreed. “They used to be his dungeons, he probably knows them better than even Peeves.”

“Or Filch,” Ron grinned. He was glancing toward Ginny again, where Neville had chosen the seat next to her and had spelled her arm to respond to his as if it were on puppet strings. She was smiling at the weird gestures he was making them do, and she looked like she’d momentarily forgotten that her Quidditch dreams were all but crushed.

“And while you’re at it,” Ron added, snatching another roll from the basket. “See if it’s the Giant Squid making that unholy stench down there. No one’s seen it yet.”

“Ugh,” Harry said, his face slightly scrunched up as he imagined the gross smelly leftovers of a giant squid in the narrow dungeon passageways.

“It’s likely still in the Black Lake, Harry,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes at Ron as she cut her breakfast sausage. “Don’t listen to him.”

Harry gave a small smile and nodded at the pile of books next to Hermione’s elbow.

“Did you get a portkey yet?”

“Yes,” she answered, giving a nervous glance to the books. They were all on memory charms, memory curses, and the reversal of the same charms. There were a few articles stacked on top, and Harry swore that one had a photo of a grinning Lockhart.

“Doesn’t leave until late tonight. It’s the earliest Kingsley could get,” Ron added.

“There are very heavy restrictions right now on who can leave the country,” Hermione quietly said. “Until…”

A loud double clock gong sound echoed over the Great Hall and out the windows of the room, a noise that used to be the ten-minute warning before the first class of the day. All heads in the room paused slightly, as if taking in the noise, and regular activities of eating and talking resumed. All except for the head table, where Snape folded up the papers he was reading and slipped them under his arm as he gingerly, but purposefully, walked out of the hall.

“Until the last rogue Death Eaters are caught,” Harry finished, watching Snape leave.

….

The Headmaster’s office was quicker to reach than McGonagall’s was, but Harry found his passaged blocked by a battle-worn gargoyle. It was grumpy and untalkative, much like the owner of the office, but after glaring at Harry for a full minute, finally informed him that Snape was busy with the Ministry and could not accept any visitors. Harry, listening to the language as well as the message, noted the use of could not instead of would not.

He thanked the gargoyle, making sure to be nothing but polite, and promised to return later.

Today’s tasks for rebuilding were the fourth floor classrooms and towers, though Harry was in no hurry to join the crew. Though most of the people who’d stayed behind to fix Hogwarts knew Harry, or at least were acquainted in passing with him, there was still the expectation that he’d be able to fix things faster or better than others, because he had been the one to defeat Voldemort. He had had the strength to do that, and it seemed, he would carry the assumption that it made him stronger than everyone else.

In the end, Harry hadn’t even used magic to do it. He’d never explained exactly how Voldemort had died, begging off exhaustion from the battle, and finally claiming that it had all happened too fast for him to remember. But there had been a dead body, and eventually, it was decided that as long as he was dead, they didn’t quite care how.

And the only other person who could have accounted for the exact events was not currently talking.

As Harry walked the long hall by the transfiguration classes, he hoped that Snape would continue to keep quiet, once the Aurors decided that they needed to know.

Professor McGonagall’s door was open, and he knocked three times before stepping in. Sunshine poured through the windows, the chesterfield against the wall looked as if it had been freshly cleaned, and the bookcases had all been dusted. Music was playing on the old gramophone in the corner, cheery dance music from the beginning of the century, and McGonagall herself was sitting at her desk with a cup of tea and a very long and elegant quill.

“Mr Potter, taking a break this morning?” she greeted, waiving him in toward a seat.

“Somewhat,” Harry answered, carefully sitting down. His back still twinged now and again, from god knew what, and he didn’t feel like spending the rest of the day in pain from one false move. “I wanted to speak to you about the lower dungeons.”

She paused in her writing, putting the quill down and steeping her fingers together. She’d always been a matronly figure to Harry, as he imagined a grandmother of his might have been, and he was pleased to see the soft look on her face. McGonagall was a strict taskmaster, no doubt, but she still cared.

“That was not your fault,” she began.

“I know,” Harry interrupted, wiping his hands on his jeans. The taste of mouldy damp stone was in his mouth again, as if he were walking by the dungeon stairs at the moment.

“None of us knew he would do that. There was too much chaos going on to know. But I feel, every time I walk by there, I feel something.”

“You feel what?” she asked, her eyes narrowed as she studied Harry. His face flushed slightly, and he knew he should have taken the time to shave earlier.

“I feel that there’s something left down there. It’s not spent magic, and I don’t think it’s a hex or ghosts either.”

“Well, it must be something,” she reasonably said. “This may all be magic, but even magic must follow some conventional rules.”

“Some,” Harry said, with a self-deprecating twist of his lips. He tapped his forehead where the scar was, the same bold scar that he’d had for as long as he could remember.

“Touché,” she conceded, reaching for her tea.  “Perhaps we should speak to Severus.”

“I tried,” Harry glumly said. “His gargoyle said he was busy with the Ministry.”

“Of course,” McGonagall nodded. “The paperwork for the battle, and its losses, has taken up much of his free time this month.”

Harry, struck by daunting task of filling out Accidental Death forms for the far too many students that had died, blurted out his next thought randomly.

“I should see if he needs help.”

Before McGonagall could say anything, Harry looked up at her and blinked owlishly, as he wasn’t entirely certain where his concern had come from.

McGonagall’s next comment wasn’t regarding his statement though, but rather the final events of the battle.

“I don’t believe I have ever thanked you for saving his life,” she said, her strong eyes piercing right through him.

Harry felt himself instantly grow red, and he looked down at his shoes.

“You know I couldn’t…not,” Harry muttered.

“I know,” McGonagall said, relaxing back into her chair. “And heavens knows what found the two of you in that room. But you were there, and you saved him. We are all grateful, Harry. Even Severus.”

Harry looked up and grinned, honestly grinned, for the first time in days.

“Don’t tell him that. He hates when a Potter saves his life.”

She smiled back, the smile she had in fifth year and was watching Peeves rain down mischief on Umbridge, while trying to appear disapproving.

“Out, Mr Potter. Make yourself useful somewhere in this castle today.” She waved at the office door, and Harry jumped out of the visitor’s chair to leave. He paused at the door, as one last thought occurred to him.

“Do you know why Snape always sits alone at lunch, Professor?”

Distracted, she looked up with a blank expression while searching for the answer.

“I don’t think he expects anything else.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He certainly knew what that was like, and could still – after all these years at Hogwarts – remember being at primary and learning to never hope that someone would sit with him at lunch.

“Severus is not a very public man, Harry,” McGonagall continued, before Harry could ask anything else. “I used to visit for tea, once a week, and talk in private.”

“Oh,” Harry repeated. “But not any more?”

McGonagall had returned to her paperwork, and didn’t see the disappointed look on Harry’s face.

“Not since he became Headmaster.”

…

Harry had taken to walking the grounds before he met Ron and Hermione for lunch. It gave him time to think, and time to note the changes happening to the castle, though while he’d first looked forward to the walk, when he reached the charred steps of Hagrid’s hut Harry wanted nothing more than to return to the castle.

He saw Filch skulking about with a broom three separate times, attacking the endless piles of rubble that were all over the grounds. Harry nearly ran into four students by the greenhouses, cleaning up the shattered glass, and seemed to spot a ghost every time he changed direction.  Unlike the ghosts of the four Houses though, the ones Harry saw were dressed in the familiar Hogwarts school robes, and watched him with blank expressions until he had to turn away.

On his return inside, Harry climbed the back stairs behind the clock tower near where the hospital wing was and caught a glimpse of Headmaster Snape.

Snape had been keeping to himself, after his release from the hospital wing. The neutrality they’d reached during the two-day siege in the dungeons seemed still to exist, as he hadn’t sought Harry out nor made any mention of Harry’s visits to him in the hospital wing. Then again, Harry had been careful to go at midnight, when the Headmaster had been sleeping, and he hoped that Snape just hadn’t known.

“Good morning,” Harry said, walking up to where Snape was. He’d gone to the top of the clock tower, and was watching the mechanisms click and twirl.

Snape didn’t turn to look at Harry, didn’t move at all except to pull the sleeves of his robes tighter around himself, as if he were cold, or wanted protection. His fingers were white, and the nails looked to have been bitten down enough to cause bleeding. Snape’s cheeks were just as hollow as they’d been in the height of the war, even though Harry knew Madame Pomfrey had plied him with a steady stream of nutrient potions.

None of her potions had been able to instantly repair Snape’s voice box, where Nagini had struck him several times.

After a minute of silence, Snape pulled a small muggle spiral notebook out of his pocket, and scribbled something down with a small pencil.

-Is it?-

The heavy thunk of the minute hand echoed through the hallway as it fell to thirty, and Harry withstood Snape’s scrutiny as he was studied.

“I’ve had worse,” Harry finally answered. Snape evidently didn’t deem that as requiring a response, as he merely turned his head in acknowledgement and walked away. Harry expected the great storming stride of the man who exuded power and mystery, but instead remained silent as he watched Snape limp slowly off. Both legs were sore, Harry could tell, and Snape’s posture wasn’t as straight as it normally was, his back hunched slightly in a way that would provide a bit of relief as the man walked.

A flash of a memory assaulted Harry’s mind, of a small bedroom, a man on a cot, jerking limbs as he tried to roll into the foetal position as a giant snake struck.

Shaking his head, Harry rubbed his arms to get rid of the chill that had snuck up on him. He’d killed Nagini as soon as he could, and Snape had gestured to Madame Pomfrey the attack had lasted less than ten seconds. But Harry couldn’t get the image out of his mind, or forget the feeling of running through the halls, with a limp Snape in his arms and bleeding through to his robes.

…..

A Hogwarts open house was planned for that evening, where parents and students could come and walk the halls of their beloved school, mostly restored to its pre-war glory. The lower dungeons were corded off, and parts of the south tower were closed, still in crumbled ruins as a remembrance of what had taken place.  Snape secretly approved of the decision to leave the tower raw and unfixed, as he felt himself that no matter how victorious they were, new scars had been added.

The heroes of the evening were to sit at the head table, and though Snape had scowled and furiously scribbled out his arguments, he had not managed to get out of the event. Both Minerva McGonagall and Arthur Weasley had insisted on his presence.

Snape stood in front of the mirror in his private flat, buttoning up the cravat of his suit to ensure his scars were covered. They were littered across his body, Nagini having attacked as if she were a hornet caught in his robes. But he knew his neck would be were most people would look, where he’d suffered the most blood loss, and where the damage had been its worst.

Snape paused, tilting his head slightly and taking a deep breath. He imagined he could still smell the murky and heavy scent of the Black Lake, clinging to the rough stones of the bathroom walls. The headmaster’s flat wasn’t anywhere near the flooding, but the stones were the same and Snape had lived so long in the dungeons that the attack had felt rather personal. Shaking his head, Snape scowled at his reflection, and left the washroom. He remembered to take a notebook, small enough to fit in his pocket, and a Muggle pencil. He had very little expectations of speaking with anyone at the dinner, but he had always ensured to be prepared for any possibility.

The Great Hall was only half full when Snape arrived, his dark robes casting a shadow across the head table as he slipped to the far end of the raised platform and took a seat in front of the House Pillars, which showed equal points for all houses. The nameplate in front of him was filled out with a tap of his wand, and Snape sat with his hands on the table as he stared at the visitors.

He knew he was forbidding, imposing in his dark robes, and certainly not friendly-looking. He wasn’t expecting so many looks of distrust, but managed to keep his expression bland. A quick glance at his watch showed that dinner would begin in less than a quarter of an hour. He could wait that long.

…

Harry entered the Great Hall hesitantly, wearing a plain pair of robes that were black and lined with a very small amount of maroon. They weren’t far off from the Hogwarts school robes, which was the effect he wanted. He didn’t feel like some grand hero, and certainly wasn’t going to dress like one. Ron and Hermione had dressed along similar lines, and they split off to chat with some of their old Gryffindor classmates. Harry kept his gaze moving around the room, never lingering long enough on anyone for them to think he wanted to talk.

Spotting Snape on the dais, sitting primly in his chair and studying the people in the hall as if someone were going to attack, Harry felt a small tug of something. It wasn’t sympathy, not quite. Snape was certainly acerbic enough to drive away all but the most stubborn. But he had certainly done just as much, if not more, than Harry had in the war, and Harry felt it wasn’t fair that Snape was sitting alone, off to the side of the gathering.

Flashing a warm smile to people as he moved through the crowd, and neglecting to stop for anyone, Harry stepped up onto the platform and made his way over to the chair beside Snape.

“’ello, sir,” Harry quietly said, looking out over the crowd. Ron and Hermione had noticed his move, along with quite a few other curious attendees.

-What do you want, Potter?-

Snape’s response came a moment later, in the neat but tiny writing Harry knew from his Potions book.

“Right now?” Harry asked, turning to look at Snape. He purposefully did not look at Snape’s neck. “I think I’d kill for a tea and my couch.”

An eyebrow rose in consideration at that, and the notebook was snatched back for his next comment.

-If I couldn’t escape this, neither shall the Boy Who Lived.-

“Hah,” Harry answered, relaxing slightly. “Well, we’re here, but I didn’t promise how long I’d stay, and if I know you at all, you didn’t either.”

-Well concluded.-

Before Harry could say anything further, Kingsley Shacklebolt strode to the front of the room and cast a sonorous on his voice, preparing for a speech. Harry slipped out of the chair, feeling that he should go and stand with his two friends. The Golden Trio, as they were. Squeezing Snape’s shoulder as he stood, Harry wished the man a good evening.

Harry cast surreptitious glances all evening toward Snape’s table, and noticed that the man was never approached by anyone. True, he didn’t have a voice any longer, but he had his notebook out, sitting next to the placard announcing him as Headmaster S. Snape. He sat with his hands clasped on the table, his eyes roaming over the hall at the multitude of people talking, laughing, socialising.

“What planet are you on?”

“Shite!” Harry sputtered, nearly spilling his drink. Anticipating such a reaction, Ron reached out to steady Harry’s arm.

“Obviously not any one close to Earth,” Ron joked.

“Not really,” Harry sheepishly admitted. “I’ve a question.”

“Shoot,” Ron said, emptying his drink in one gulp.

“Disabilities aren’t handled that well in the wizarding world, are they?”

Ron looked thoughtful, and his eyes roamed over toward where Snape was sitting.

“Well, we don’t really see many. Magic fixes a lot,” Ron answered.

“But not everything. Mad Eye Moody was missing his leg,” Harry pointed out.

“I think he was missing much more than that,” Ron muttered. A house elf wandered by with a tray, and Ron snagged another drink.

“Ah, well you’re probably right there,” Harry smirked.

“People won’t know what to do with him,” Ron bluntly said, raising his drink in Snape’s direction. “In our world most things are easy to heal, werewolves being the exception. So if he can’t be healed, well, what’s wrong with him that he can’t be?”

“That’s a bit barbaric, isn’t it?” Harry said, watching Snape slowly fold his notebook closed, slipping it and the pencil into one of his pockets. He took his placard and carefully folded it, also taking it with him.

“That’s the wizarding world,” Ron answered, also watching.

With one last searching glance, Snape’s eyes roamed over the room, and he then eased out of the hall to the attention of almost no one.

“Does he know you visited him every night in the hospital wing?” Ron asked, eyeing Harry critically.

“No,” Harry shortly answered. “There’s no point in telling him.”

“Harry!” Hermione announced, stepping up to he and Ron before Ron could say anything else. The excitement of seeing her parents again after so long had finally won out over her nervousness, and her eyes were sparkling.

“All ready, Hermione?” Harry asked.

“I hope so. Professor Flitwick is letting me take several of the books on memory charms with me, and we’ve practised what to do if –”

“We’re ready,” Ron interrupted, shaking his head good-naturedly.

“Will you be all right here in the castle?” Hermione asked, concern flitting across her face as she ignored Ron completely. “We’ll be gone a fortnight, at the very least…”

“Hermione, have you seen the castle?” Harry asked, his tone teasing. “There’s still lots to do, I’ll be fine.”

“I meant at night,” she sternly responded.

“Oh!” Ron said, digging through his pocket for something. He handed off his drink to Hermione and checked further in his robes. “Here it is.”

He handed off what looked to be a small billfold to Harry, and smiled proudly.

“Eh, thanks, Ron. What is it?”

“It’s a new Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes product,” Ron explained. “You can write a letter, stick it in there, and it’ll appear in the matching one.”

“Which you have?” Harry asked, at the same time that Hermione asked “Over such a long distance?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, still happy. “I gave them the idea, ‘cause I thought it would have been handy to have last year when we were camping and separated. No owls, no Floo traces, nothing.”

“That’s brilliant,” Harry said, inspecting the inside of the billfold.

“And with the time difference, we’ll likely be awake in the middle of your night. Just…if you might want to send a letter,” Ron continued, this time looking like he was fighting a cough.

“Thanks,” Harry said, saving Ron from having to explain any further. “Don’t forget to write too; I’ve heard Australia has _lots_ of spiders.”

Ron looked a little pale at that, but rallied quickly.

“Yeah, but none like Aragog,” he answered, giving Harry a nod. He then turned to Hermione, who was glaring silently at Harry for revealing the information. “There aren’t any like Aragog, right?”

“ _Harry_ ,” Hermione huffed, and stalked off toward the food without another word.

…

Snape had settled back into the couch, his hot tea resting on the table next to him. The book he was reading, _The Poacher’s Apprentice_ , sat on his lap with the cover and front pages curled upward. He’d read it often enough that the book would never again rest flat on any surface, and though Snape could likely fix the edges with magic, he preferred not to.

It was quiet in the headmaster’s end of the castle, peace had returned there, regardless of the party continuing below. Snape glanced at the notebook he’d thrown to the table earlier, this evening’s three sentences the only thing marking it’s crisp pages.

A rather heavy knock sounded on his door, and startled Snape out of his thoughts. His focus broke from the notebook, and he stared at his front door as if it were foreign. Two knocks sounded again, and Snape rose unsteadily off the couch. He was wearing his comfortable house clothes, slippers and worn trousers, with a jumper. He wasn’t quite in the mood to see anyone, but couldn’t yell at them to go away.

Snape threw the door open, his brows furrowed in confusion as he took in his visitor.

Potter.

Snape’s mouth worked over the word, somehow conveying the question without making a sound.

“Guilty as charged,” The man who lived said, holding tightly to a tray with biscuits, two mugs, and a very old teapot covered in a stone blue tea cosy. “I nicked it from the elves, wish to share?”

Snape’s mouth opened and shut, a natural reaction stemmed only by his second’s later recollection that he couldn’t speak.

Instead, he held up his hand and waited for the notebook to come from his side table. Once it did, he quickly scribbled his reply and held it up.

-I have just made my own-

Snape pulled his sleeves down over his hands, slightly uncomfortable for a student to see him at this level of relaxed dress.

“Oh, I, sorry. I should have realised you’d make your own after leaving the party,” Potter replied, and Snape couldn’t fathom why he looked so disappointed.

“Ron and Hermione are leaving in an hour, so maybe I’ll see if they want a tea to go,” Potter continued, sounding as if he was trying to pick himself up.

Snape shook his head and turned over the page in his notebook.

-If you are in need of a chore, I require unicorn blood from my personal stores.-

An interesting expression took over Potter’s face, a look of both disdain and also determination.  The personal stores cupboard was down near the kitchens, close to the north staircase to the lower dungeons. It was not a far walk, but Snape suspected the location itself and its proximity to the dungeons was the problem.

“All right,” Potter said, putting the tea tray down on one of the side tables in the front entryway of the room. When Dumbledore had been headmaster, these tables had been filled with astronomy machines and scopes, but as Snape’s office, they were empty save for a fruit bowl in the middle. “Could you send that to my room, please?”

And before Snape could protest, Potter was silently out the door.

….

 

Harry walked down the darkened hall, the few sconces lighting as he passed, but not giving nearly enough light to fill in the shadowy crevices of the walls and floor. Here the smell of the dank dungeons was stronger, and Harry kept from swallowing so he wouldn’t taste the murky waters of the Black Lake on his tongue. Snape’s potion storeroom was warded, but as Snape hadn’t told Harry the password, Harry was certain it was one he could bypass.

“This room belongs to the Half Blood Prince,” Harry muttered, putting his hand over the door handle. He heard the audible click of the lock, and turned it slowly with a grimace. The knob was damp, from the moisture in the air.

The bottom of the door had been wetted and slightly warped by the flooding, and creaked open not without protest, with a hard pull. Harry half expected to see Snape inside the storeroom, looking for veritaserum or something else to poison Harry with.

“Lumos,” Harry cast, his eyes glancing in the bottom of the room and following the ladder up, where he saw nothing but potion ingredients, little scraps of instructional parchment, and a pair of piercing brown eyes. He heard something shift and nearly dropped his wand, gasping as he tried to stumble out of the room. At the top of the ladder was a thin boy, dressed in a Hogwarts school uniform, and glaring at him with a cragged and accusatory expression. A wrinkled grey hand reached out, and Harry’s breath hitched in fear as the boy noiselessly descended the ladder, not floating like a ghost, but climbing and twisting like a monkey would.

“Acc-accio unicorn blood!” Harry called, flicking his wand at the cupboard. The boy’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth opened, but no sound emerged as the dusty jar Harry had summoned burst through his ashen robes. Harry snatched the jar out of the air, and his last fleeting glance as he tore out of the lower hallway was of the boy, angry faced and pointing toward the dungeons.

…..

Harry scratched the back of his head in frustration as he sat heavily on his bed. McGonagall had been nice enough to move them all to a guest suite, and Ron and Hermione had taken the larger room, but Harry didn’t like the silence of his own. Hogwarts shouldn’t be silent. Hogwarts should be warm and comfortable and filled with the sounds of Ron talking in his sleep, or Dean snoring, or the little clank of the room’s heater as it burned off the chill of the tower. The guest room he was in though, only had one small window in the corner of the room, overlooking the small, dark prefect’s courtyard.

At least he was safe in the room. Snape’s office had been empty when Harry had returned with the unicorn blood, so he’d left it on the desk and returned down to the guest suite. Ron and Hermione had just finished packing and with their excitement, Harry couldn’t bring himself to scare them with ghost stories. Especially not ghost stories of Hogwarts, where ghosts were rather expected.

Slipping under the blanket, Harry opened the bedroom door with magic. He’d never had trouble sleeping alone at the Dursleys, but Harry suspected that it was because the Dursleys were so damn Muggle that nothing creepy or supernatural could touch them. He rolled on his side and faced the door, where the light from Ron and Hermione’s room was just able to reach. They’d left on the portkey twenty minutes earlier, but Harry had left the sconces on in their bedroom, hoping to fool himself into thinking that they were still there so that he could sleep.

Even though it was mid June, the bed was freezing cold. It was lumpy and thin, a contradiction that Harry knew didn’t make sense, but that he could feel with his body and knew it had to be true. The blanket was stretched thin, folded over his feet so nothing could grab at him, but the shivers across his body made him wonder if there wasn’t something there anyway.

….

Harry had no idea what time it was when he next woke up. His door was still open, but the suite was completely silent and there wasn’t a sound to be heard from his window either. He’d woken up with a start, instantly getting the feeling that someone was watching him. There was no one in the room though, and much like the room he and Snape had been in during the final battle, there were strong wards to protect him. That, however, hadn’t stopped Nagini from finding her way in.

Harry’s eyes glanced about the room, expecting to see the bloody snake coiled up in the shadowy corner, waiting to attack. His fingers slowly clutched the bedcovers, remembering how silent the dungeons had been just before Nagini’s attack, as silent as his bedroom was now. Not even a ticking clock to break the dark. Remembering as a child how he’d taken a silly sort of comfort in pulling the blankets up over his head, as if the monsters couldn’t get him if he was fully covered.

As he was an adult though, and a fully trained wizard, Harry snatched his wand before pulling the covers up over his chin and then forehead with one smooth motion. The blanket rippled, and Harry looked down to see two piercing hazel eyes staring back at him. The smooth flat head, lopsided nostrils, and opening mouth flashed before Harry seconds before he jumped out of bed – fast enough that he wasn’t sure he hadn’t apparated. His wand pointed at the bed, hand skittish as he stared at the covers and realised they’d fallen flat, that there was nothing under them.

Which was logical, as he’d killed Nagini himself and remembered it quite clearly, but it didn’t explain why he’d seen her ghost under his blankets.

Sufficiently disturbed, and certainly not going back to bed, Harry dressed himself in yesterday’s clothes and decided to visit the one place at Hogwarts he’d feel safe and have company no matter the time of night: the Hogwarts kitchens.

Harry turned off Ron and Hermione’s lights and draped his invisibility cloak over his shoulders as he left the suite. When he was much younger he’d had very little fear about walking through the castle at night, indeed, house point loss was his most pressing concern. Now Harry walked soundlessly down the main staircase, his eyes darting left and right to check the shadows of the hallway as he passed. The safety of Hogwarts had been compromised – violated – with the destructiveness of the final battle.

All though, Harry reflected, as he reached for the peach in the painting, Hogwarts for him had probably lost its invulnerability the night Dumbledore had died, or when Barty Crouch Jr had infiltrated the staff, or even as far back as when a small boy had had to kill a giant basilisk.

The lights in the kitchen were fairly low, but Harry felt a small measure better upon seeing one or two house elves busying themselves around the giant oven at the far left end of the room. He faltered slightly upon noticing that the staff table, furthest from the kitchen door, was occupied.

“Headmaster,” Harry quietly said, making his way to the front of the room. They’d both seen each other, and Harry felt that it would be a grave insult to sit at a table far away.

\- Still traipsing through the corridors past curfew – Snape’s note read, as the small little notebook was passed across the table. Harry had transfigured a chair out of a footrest that was near Snape, and placed it opposite the man.

He opened his mouth to protest, but then just shrugged.

“Still can’t sleep.”

Snape gave him an assessing look, his fingers holding onto a thick and healthily buttered piece of rye bread. The bread was dark and aromatic, with little green seeds popping out of the crust and inner loaf. The main chunk of it was still in a plastic bag, which Harry found very odd to see at Hogwarts, with a logo for some bakery called Barbakan. He hadn’t realised he was staring until a plate, which Snape must have silently summoned, landed heavily on the table next to him.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered. Snape cut a ragged slice, and handed it over. In the brighter lighting of the kitchen, Harry could see that Snape’s wounds were slowly healing, but that the man looked like he hadn’t slept since the battle.

Watching his own hands methodically butter his slice, Harry spoke lowly, but not too quiet that Snape couldn’t hear him.

“I want to tell you I’m sorry,” Harry started, only to flinch when Snape’s hand pounded once against the table. The notebook was yanked back, and Snape was scribbling something, but Harry interrupted first.

“No! I need to tell you this,” he insisted, forcing himself to keep eye contact with Snape. “I need to tell you that I’m sorry. I didn’t know she’d gotten into the room, and I should have looked out for you. Like you’ve always done for me.”

Snape now had an uncomfortable grimace on his face, and he resumed writing, albeit at a much less frenzied pace.

\- Neither of us expected that an animal could bypass the wards -

Harry read fast, and shook his head.

“But I did know! I should have told you. Both Peter Pettigrew and Sirius were able to come onto Hogwarts grounds, without anyone knowing, as animals. I knew that they could, and we knew that he’d use Nagini, for something. I should have…” Harry huffed, slumping further into his seat.

\- You should learn to only take responsibility for what you are directly responsible for – Snape replied, his writing neat despite the late hour and subject of conversation. –You killed her, and ensured I was seen to. We are even. -

“We aren’t,” Harry quietly said, breaking off a bit of bread to eat. After tasting it, he could now tell that in addition to pumpkin seeds, there were also some small bits of dried apple in the rye bread. “But I can live with that.  Is it…have they said when you’ll get your voice back?”

Snape looked like he didn’t want to answer the question, but began writing any way. Harry suspected he wouldn’t be so open to sharing, had they been sitting anywhere else at a normal time of day.

\- When it heals, – came the simple answer. – In the meantime, I have sufficient work to keep my mind off the injuries. -

“Oh, yeah. With the Ministry and such. And I bet it’s a pain having to find places for all the new ghosts here.”

Snape drew his eyebrows in slowly at that statement. – There are only five new ghosts.-

“What?” Harry asked, bread still in his mouth. “But…no, I’ve seen many more than that. And Nagini, I saw her ton…”

Harry trailed off, feeling distinctly uncomfortable at the look Snape was giving him.

\- Only five new ghosts have been identified, and come to speak with me – Snape wrote again, his hand a little heavier than before. – Who have you seen?-

“People that died in the battle,” Harry blankly responded. He had a hollow feeling inside, as the safe warmth he’d felt earlier upon entering the room was starting to slip from his grasp.  “Students that were – the ones that drowned when he flooded the dungeons.”

Snape was writing this all down, and Harry could see the next question coming his way.

“Six have already found me,” Harry answered, “but none of them could tell me who they were.”

\- Couldn’t, or wouldn’t? – was the next direct question.

“Couldn’t. They opened their mouths as if to speak, but nothing came out,” he wasn’t happy about having to relay the creepy things he kept seeing about the castle, and the bread, which had been delicious mere moments earlier, no longer held any of his interest.

-You saw Nagini this evening as well? -

“Yeah,” Harry said, swallowing thickly and now feeling his thirst. “I heard a noise in my room, and figured I’d be silly and hide under the covers, like a little kid. And there she was, staring at me with those eyes. Under the covers, like how she got you.”

Snape suddenly stood up and for a second Harry thought he’d said too much and given Snape a bad flashback. Instead, the headmaster bagged the last of his bread and beckoned for Harry to follow. Out of the kitchens they walked, fast enough that Harry couldn’t linger in any one spot, and sense the tastes of the castle on his tongue.

They’d made it to the third floor before Harry realised they were going toward the Headmaster’s offices, and likely Snape’s own flat as well.

…

Snape led them up the small steps to the desk area of the office, and then around to a small half staircase that was behind one of the bookshelves where the Sorting Hat was snoring. Harry had never noticed these stairs before, though he wasn’t certain if it was his lack of observation, or a spell that had kept them hidden.

Behind the door they led to was a circular room the size of the main headmaster’s office, and it was filled with Snape’s personal effects. A large comfortable couch sat in the middle of the room, draped with various blankets and piles of papers on one end. Behind the couch, against the back wall was a curtained four-poster bed and some bedside cabinets. Tucked into the corner of the room was a small wardrobe, which Harry was willing to bet galleons had a space-enhancing spell on it. On the other wall of the room was a small kitchenette – not enough to cook a full meal, but enough for a snack and hot drinks. And directly opposite Harry was a third circular wall full of windows that overlooked the pitch-dark grounds of Hogwarts.

Snape offered him a drink, and gestured to the couch.

\- There is something not right within the castle,- Snape said preparing his own glass of what looked to be chocolate milk.

“Do you feel the magic in the dungeons too?” Harry asked. “How do you know?”

\- I am the headmaster,” Snape replied, getting his irritated tone across despite the medium.

“Fine,” Harry said, turning to look away. “You’re the headmaster and you know everything that happens in the castle.”

-Don’t get smart, - Snape wrote, nearly giving Harry a paper cut on the cheek as he tossed the note at him. –I do not know what the cause is, just that something is off.-

Harry read the second note, and, slightly chastised, just nodded.

“Why haven’t we gone down, to see what’s happening?”

Snape sighed in irritation and pursed his lips. He pointed to his throat, and then held out his scarred hands, before writing another note.

-Because I am _tired_ , Potter. -

Somewhat taken back by Snape’s lack of interest in pursing a dark magic within the castle – something he would have taken off at a year before – Harry took a good look at Snape. Even in just the candlelight of the room, the lines on Snape’s face were clear and harsh. The scars on his throat looked angry, and the two puncture marks on his forehead, normally hidden by his hair, were still slightly indented. He didn’t look like he’d gained any weight in the month since the battle, and his skin was slightly paler than usual.

He then realised why the lower dungeons hadn’t been worked on yet, and why they were warded. Snape simply didn’t have the energy, or will power, to face anything else. The battle was over, he’d nearly died, and he was done fighting curses and dark magic. Something may have been in the dungeons, but Snape had warded them shut until he had the focus to deal with them.

Harry also remembered what McGonagall had said earlier, about no longer taking tea with Snape after the man had become headmaster. He wondered if anyone had bothered to spend time with Snape in the past year, and felt a painful pinch of sadness at the idea of Snape facing the worst year he’d ever had at Hogwarts, completely alone.

“Are you all right, sir?” Harry quietly asked, trying to make sure nothing like pity showed on his face. Despite his carefulness, Snape still scowled at him.

-That is none of your concern.-

Snape’s answer was shoved at him, and Harry immediately picked up on the fact that Snape hadn’t actually answered the question. He decided to drop the subject though, not wanting to start a row at three in the morning, but vowed to himself to visit more often.

“You know, when I learned about his parents, I wondered if Merope Gaunt had ever known that she’d given birth to such a monster,” Harry suddenly said, repositioning himself on Snape’s chesterfield and picking up his glass of juice.

Snape recovered quickly from the random change of conversation topic, and began writing his answer.

\- Had he been born fifty years earlier, she likely would have solved our problems before any one of us had been conceived of. -

“How so? You don’t mean she would have killed him herself?” Harry said, his eyebrows furrowing in slight disbelief.

-Absolutely. – Snape wrote, the book flashed up at Harry like a study flashcard. It was snatched back, and Harry watched with fascination as Snape not only wrote out his next thoughts, but also summoned a small volume from his well-stocked bookcases.

\- Infanticide in the nineteenth century was rampant. Many single mothers with illegitimate children either sent them to workhouses, or murdered them. – Snape wrote, sliding the notebook over to Harry. His fingers quickly picked up the book that had floated over, and he flipped through it.

“Are you serious?” Harry answered, surprised and more than a little queasy at the thought. “Mothers killed their own babies?”

\- Toddlers, - Snape corrected. – Many were toddlers. With the social stigma of being a promiscuous woman, the poverty and lack of funds to feed a child? Many opted to kill their own, rather than have to raise them. Of course, many were hanged for it. -

He passed the thin book over, and Harry saw a newspaper clipping that had been photographed and placed in the book, detailing an arrest of a twenty-one year old girl whose child had been found dead.

\- Merope Gaunt was shamed, was she not? Poor; her family was in Azkaban, her marriage in tatters? The only positive circumstance to the Dark Lord was that he had been born legitimately. -  Snape finished, draining his own glass of chocolate milk. He said back in his chair and blinked a few times, his eyes heavy with fatigue.

“Maybe so, but she didn’t want him,” Harry slowly said, closing the book. “He would always remind her of the senior Tom Riddle. Maybe you’re right. If she didn’t have the orphanage to take him to, she maybe would have killed him.”

\- Instead, that happy honour went to you, - Snape wrote, standing up and putting his books and glass away. Harry felt like he was imposing, but kept his glass in his hand and made himself look up.

“Thanks for…” Harry started, nodding at his glass and not sure quite what to say. “Thanks. And we’ll figure out what’s down there. Maybe not tomorrow, but, I’ll help.”

Snape looked at him strangely for a moment, before leading Harry to the outer door of his office. He pressed a piece of notepaper into Harry’s hand and gave a polite nod good night. Feeling calmer than he had earlier, Harry read the paper as he rode the spiral staircase down.

-Of course you will.-

…

Tonight’s dinner was a fancier event than the night previously, as it was being used as a fundraiser to replace classroom furniture and school items, along with building up the fund to help unfortunate students purchase school supplies. As the loss of the battle was still very fresh, there was hope that the fund would be boosted heavily this evening, as it didn’t seem like anyone who would be attending didn’t know someone who had been injured or killed in the war.

Tonight he’d be without Ron and Hermione for distraction though, and Harry didn’t want to imagine what sort of target he’d be standing by himself. The press had been fairly decent at not hounding him for interviews and exclusive details, but Harry knew that if he were sitting alone in the Great Hall, someone would find a reason to sit with him and pester him.

Sighing to himself, Harry picked up his black outer robe to drape over his shoulders. It was only a few minutes to walk from his suite to the Great Hall, but Harry left early enough to detour through some of the empty upper floor hallways and burn off some of the jitters he had. He’d only managed the few hours of sleep that had occurred before the nightmare the night before, and his hands tended to tremble when he was overtired.

As he started down the back staircase, behind the hospital wing, Harry paused to check the letter billfold that was in his robe pocket. He’d received a note an hour earlier, letting him know that the Grangers were safe, and that Ron and Hermione were planning how best to return the memories. Harry had written a happy and enthusiastic reply, but hadn’t yet received another. He’d shoved the billfold in his pocket at the last minute, figuring if a reply came it would give him something to read at dinner, and make him appear busy.

As expected, sounds of voices and footsteps and greetings echoed down the hall as Harry moved closer to the grand staircase. Neville and Ginny, staying in another guest suite together, were up ahead, and Harry gave them a small wave. He was in no rush to get to the end of the hall, knowing that as soon as he was visible, he’d be dragged into conversation with anyone and everyone.

Harry paused for a second, tilting his head as he listened. He could hear footsteps, equally as slow as his own, coming from behind him. There was a slight shuffle to them, as if the person was limping, and Harry waited in the shadows for a moment to see who it was. A figure in black rounded the corner shortly after, and Harry instantly recognised Snape. He didn’t think he would ever forget the man, not after what they’d gone through.

“Good evening,” Harry said, pushing himself forward as Snape approached.  He received a slight nod in response, and nothing further. 

“I think Professor McGonagall said we only had to stay for two hours,” Harry quietly said, half joking, as they stepped into the open. Before anyone had noticed them, Snape held up his wrist to show Harry his watch, and the timer set for two hours on it.

“Good,” Harry said, with a small smile. “It won’t just be me that leaves.”

Snape stood at the top of the stairs in his imposing robes, the collar done up as high as it would go to hide as many scars as it could. The people entering the castle below were a mixture of students, parents, and citizens of the wizarding world, most dressed in their fanciest robes. While last night’s dinner had been a welcome back re-opening of the school, tonight was definitely a high class fundraising event.

Harry, watching carefully, noted the people that hadn’t come. He saw the empty spot next to Romilda Vane, and the way Dennis Creevey glanced about the room as if expecting to see his brother. He saw Draco Malfoy arrive, stepping in with as little fanfare as Harry could imagine, his robes sombre black as if he were in mourning. It took Harry a moment to remember that Pansy had been one of the first killed in the stand off.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to follow Snape’s pointing finger. On the lower landing of the stairs, to the side of the entrance to the hall, were Harry’s friends and Professor McGonagall. They were smiling at him, and Harry figured he was to go over and start his evening with pleasantries.

“You have to come too,” Harry grumbled, waving at a few of his classmates as he headed toward McGonagall, Neville, and Ginny. He could hear Snape following him, but missed the scowl Snape had set on his face.

“Professor,” Harry said, giving her a warm smile. She placed her hand out and squeezed his shoulder, giving him a more motherly look than he was used to.

“Harry, it’s good to see you all dressed up,” McGonagall said.

“We clean up rather well, don’t we,” Neville quietly, but proudly, said. He was in brand new dress robes that accentuated the muscle he’d picked up somewhere over the past year. Ginny’s robes were also new, and the folds in the dress she wore mostly hid the brace she had put around her injured arm.

She rolled her eyes at Neville and turned to greet Snape.

“You’re looking well, sir.”

Snape gave her a small nod of acknowledgement, but didn’t take out his notepad so he could say anything.  

“I’m sure if my colleague could speak, he would join me in thanking you for all your help with rebuilding the castle,” McGonagall said, glancing at each face in the group and somehow not noticing the glare Snape was levelling her way. That, or she was ignoring it completely.

“You’ve all done a great service to the school,” she then continued, and Harry knew she wasn’t just talking about the rebuilding anymore. Embarrassed, Harry scratched the back of his neck, where he’d had a sudden itch.

“This is our home, Professor. Of course we’d stay to help,” Ginny said, glancing between McGonagall and the people entering the Great Hall.

“To be honest, I couldn’t imagine not being here,” Neville admitted.

Harry scratched his neck again, looking around to see if there was an insect flying about causing the itching. Or perhaps a bored ghost. Snape gave him a curious look, but it wasn’t friendly curious, it was more of a ‘what have you done’ look, and Harry would have bet galleons that if Snape could have spoken, his tone would have been quite cutting.

“I suppose we should be getting in,” McGonagall finally said, taking a tissue from her pocket and dabbing it over her cheeks. Harry noticed for the first time that she wore make up, and wondered how he’d never seen it before.

“I wonder what the elves are serving,” Neville pondered, his arm easily slipping around Ginny’s shoulders as they turned for the door.

“What was that?” McGonagall asked, turning back to look at Harry. Harry hadn’t said anything, but he then heard the whisper, the quiet whisper flowing over his shoulder as if it were a dance of music drifting over the radio waves. By the time his brain had processed it, Professor McGonagall had already crumpled down to the floor.

_“Avada kedavra…”_

“No!” Harry blurted, dropping to his knees and just barely failing to catch her. Her eyes were open, and the twitch of her lips slid off her face as death settled in. Harry had barely landed when there was a crushing weight beside him, heavy breathing in his ear as Snape’s panicked fingers touched McGonagall’s face, her lips, and finally over her heart.

Tears formed in Harry’s eyes as he watched Snape’s desperate moves. He was vaguely aware of his friends watching, and shouting at other people to get back, to give them space. But he didn’t say anything, he merely grasped the still warm hand of Professor McGonagall, her fingers unclenching around the wad of tissue she’d held there.

“No,” Harry hissed, shaking his head. A swoosh of black cloth whipped against his face, stinging him out of his shell shock, and Harry watched as Snape stormed off in the direction of where the whispered curse had come from. At least, Harry thought it had come from that direction, and he sprang to his feet as determined as Snape to find who had done this.

His robes flapped behind him as he ran, sprinting down into the darkness and trying to push the still image of Professor McGonagall out of his mind.

Snape had rounded the corners, running through Hogwarts as if it were the final task’s maze in the Tri-wizard tournament and fighting through the limp that Harry knew plagued him. Harry was close behind him, imagining up ahead that he could see the flapping robes of the killer disappearing into the darkened and rubble filled halls.

He only stopped, the darkness invading his senses, when he heard Snape’s pained grunt. The hallway had run out; its walls filled with empty portraits and charred rug. There was no sign of anyone else, no evil looking wizard in black, and no crazed witch with her hair cackling around her as if electrified.

“What…no! He has to be here somewhere!” Harry growled, spinning around and casting the strongest lumos he could. It only gave them more shadows to be wary of, and finally the light fell on Snape. Snape, who was knelt on the floor, his wrist bloodied from where he’d punched the rough stone wall.

Harry felt a part of himself crumble inside, watching Snape’s hair sway as he shook his head and violently clenched his fingers.

“Nnnn,” came another pained growl, and Harry winced at the raw sound coming out of Snape’s throat. Before he could react, Snape reared back and punched the wall as hard as he could, seeming not to hear the crunch of the bones in his hands.

“Oi, hey!” Harry stammered, ignoring all his senses of survival and leaning down to pull Snape back from the wall. The man struggled, as Harry thought he would, but Harry kept a tight grasp. He had one arm hooked under Snape’s, and one over the other shoulder, his hands clasped in the middle of Snape’s chest.

“We’ll need to help each other for this,” Harry said, ignoring the blood on his hands as Snape tried to free himself. “And you can’t help me crucio anyone with a mangled hand.”

Snape stopped struggling, and at the barest hint of relaxation from Harry, shrugged his shoulders to throw Harry off. Harry stood quickly, gripping his wand and searching again through the shadows against the walls. In the far distance, they could hear the echoes of chatter as more and more people found out what had happened.  Some of the voices were getting closer though, and Harry thought he could pick out the voice of someone from the _Daily Prophet_.

“We should go,” Harry said, refusing to let himself break down. Not while he was in the open castle. He’d had enough practise during the last several years to know that he could hold himself together until he had time and privacy for himself.

“We need to talk to Neville and Ginny. See if anyone saw anything, see if…if there was any trace of magic on Professor…”

Snape’s wand snapped up, aimed between Harry’s eyes. Snape’s lips were pursed as he shook his head in warning, as if he were holding back an explosion. The voices were getting closer, and Harry kept still as he watched the vein pulsing in Snape’s neck. Seeming to make a decision, Snape roughly grabbed Harry’s collar and disapparated.

Snape’s pained growl echoed through the tunnel of apparition, and Harry grasped the uninjured part of Snape’s arm to ensure he wasn’t splinched.

They landed in a room that was far too bright; far too normal. An angry slash of Snape’s wand shuttered all the curtains, wrenching them violently closed as the man fell to the floor with an anguished grunt. Harry didn’t know if it was one born out of grief or pain, for Snape had fallen to his injured wrist and the stone floors, though covered by a rug, were not forgiving.

Within seconds an acrid smell filled the room as Snape heaved and sicked up, seeming not to care about any of his possessions that were in the way. This, somehow, spurned Harry into movement and he banished the vomit as fast as he could. A bucket was summoned from somewhere, and Harry swiped Snape’s hair out of the way as he continued to be sick. It was a disgusting sight, and Harry was fascinated at how human Snape was, here on the floor with a bloodied and broken hand, tears from his eyes streaking down his cheeks as a speck of snot hung from his nose and spittle flecked out on every pained breath. 

He should have been repulsed, should have turned away and left Snape to survive, as he knew the man would. Instead, Harry wrapped his arm around the far too thin chest of Snape, catching him as a sob wracked his body and Snape nearly sank to the not so clean floor. 

“Enough?” Harry asked, kneeling on the floor and supporting Snape close to his side.

Snape had no response to give, slumping his head forward and looking as if he didn’t care if he brained himself on the flagstone.

Harry stood slowly, dragging Snape up with him and thanking the Hogwarts ghosts that Snape’s quarters were all in one room. He barely noticed the knickknacks on the bedside cabinet, merely focused on getting Snape to the bed without causing any more bodily harm. The hand was healed, well enough, with a strong episkey charm. Harry said nothing about the tears that continued as he removed Snape’s boots, pulled the man’s socks off, and tossed them to the floor. Whatever had been on the floor, in the hallway where they’d chased the shadow of a killer, had stuck to Snape’s boots and trousers and the taste was burning in Harry’s mouth.

“Go away,” Harry demanded of the taste, under his breath as he fought with Snape to remove the man’s outer jacket. There was blood and vomit on the collar and sleeves, though underneath was clean enough to stay. That was a far as he progressed though, before the man curled up into a foetal position on the bed, and threatened with a gesture to curse Harry if he went any further.

“Just, let me clean your face, and your hair,” Harry asked, glancing around to see if he could spot the washroom.

Snape snatched an old potion journal from his bedside cabinet and wrote on it with a nearly dried out quill that was acting as a page marker.

-I don’t give a shit about my hair- he wrote, the quill nearly ripping the paper of the journal.

“I’m sure you don’t,” Harry said, walking toward the set of spiral stairs over by the kitchenette. They went up, to the office loft above, but also downward and Harry hoped that the bottom floor was Snape’s washroom. “But if you fall asleep smelling and tasting that, you’ll wake up and do it all again.”

Below Snape’s all in one room was indeed the washroom, and Harry transfigured the water glass on the counter into a bowl and filled it with water, bringing a washcloth with him.

Taking advantage of Snape’s silence, Harry quickly wiped the grime and streaks from Snape’s face. He wasn’t hexed, but Snape had bared his teeth in warning when Harry lingered too long around his mouth.

-Minerva is gone, Potter,- Snape finally wrote, just as Harry had banished the bowl to the bathroom. -Can’t you get that through your thick head?-

Harry bristled, but he noticed that Snape wasn’t actually looking at him. And when Snape wanted to insult him, he definitely watched for Harry’s reaction.

“I saw it too, didn’t I?” Harry growled, sitting on the bed. He nudged Snape’s feet back as he sat, and held his face in his hands. “Whatever your wards held back, I think it’s gotten out.”

Snape was silent, and after a moment Harry lifted his head and looked over. Snape had a blank expression on his face, and for once, it wasn’t a forced one. It wasn’t the look he gave when he was trying to hide his feelings with occlumency. Snape looked like he genuinely didn’t care that Harry might have insinuated that his wards hadn’t been cast well enough.

As if moving by automation, Snape’s arm snaked out and snatched a small phial on the bedside cabinet.

-I am the headmaster. Not the hero.- Snape wrote, popping the cork and drinking the entire phial.

Harry snatched it out of his hand and saw it was Dreamless Sleep, noting that Snape had taken enough to sleep for a solid twelve hours.

“You’re both, you stupid git,” Harry finally said, standing up. Snape had pulled the blankets up around his shoulders in a defensive pose. Harry cast a light monitoring charm on the man, so he’d be alerted when Snape woke, but Harry planned to return to the chambers shortly. There was no way he’d spend the night in his own silent guest suite. Not now.

With heavier limbs than normal, Harry stepped away from the bed and out of the private chambers, walking behind the bookcase and down the small steps to the main office area. During Snape’s tenure, it was a much quieter room than it ever had been under Dumbledore, and Harry found the silence slightly unnerving. He looked around the room, at the portraits that were either empty or filled with sleeping past headmasters.  The main portrait behind the desk was empty, but Harry recognised the background of it. It was still Dumbledore’s portrait, and he was confused until he remembered that McGonagall had never officially been a headmaster of Hogwarts.

Harry dropped to his knees on the floor of the office, not noticing the pain that hit him as he connected with the stone floor. No matter what he wanted to think, McGonagall was gone. Stolen, in what should have finally been a time of peace.  Tears streaked freely down Harry’s cheeks as he silently cried, his eyes screwed shut to block out the evening light from the window.

Minutes passed, though Harry was in no hurry to leave the office. If he left the office he needed to face other people, and face reality. But he couldn’t stay holed up in Snape’s office forever, and a strong thunk from the desk in front of him snapped Harry out of the daze he was in.

A book had been tipped over, though Harry didn’t know how, by the small ghostly boy he’d seen in the potions store cupboard. The boy was sitting on the desk, his eyes staring right at Harry and his robes hanging off him, as if they were sopping wet. Again, the boy couldn’t speak, but his presence held Harry frozen in place. Though his spectacles were dirty from his tears and fingerprints, Harry easily read the boy’s lips when the ghost tried to speak.

‘The dungeons.’


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the notes and follows/favourites! I hope you like the second half just as much. :)

 

 

_Dear Ron,_

_I don’t think there’s any good way to say this. Professor McGonagall was murdered tonight. We don’t know who did it; Snape and I chased after the footsteps but didn’t find anyone down the hallway. There was no warning, Ron, and it’s like I’ve been hit by ten bludgers. The war is supposed to be over now._

_Speaking of things being over, Snape seems to have shut down. You should have seen him. After we ran down the hall, when he realised that there was no one there, he punched the wall and broke his hand. He sicked up in his quarters, and just seemed to close up. I think Snape’s just had enough, and McGonagall was the last straw._

_I’m a bit worried. We have the funeral to plan, and this killer to catch, but Snape downed a bunch of dreamless sleep, and I don’t think he has any plans of leaving his room at any point._

_I’m not sure what to do. The Dursleys just locked me in my room after Sirius died._

_Hope everything is going well with Hermione’s parents._

_Harry._

 

…

Aurors still roamed about the main staircase and Great Hall of the castle, long after the charity dinner was to have started. Harry had answered as many questions as he could, but had very little to offer.  Somewhat unsettled about Snape’s breakdown, Harry had spoken to Professor Flitwick quietly and found out that McGonagall had mentored Snape in his first few years of teaching, and that they’d always had a good professional relationship. One Harry had suspected, by the tea comments McGonagall had made earlier that day.

Harry gave a solemn goodnight to the teachers, and no one said anything as he made his way up to the Headmaster’s office, instead of down to the guest suite that he had been assigned. The lights were still flickering cheerfully in the hallways, waiting for party guests to make their way through the castle to the outdoor courtyards. Harry’s mouth felt dry; the stale musty air trapped behind tapestries somehow invading his senses and making him feel unclean.

The gargoyle at Snape’s office door was awake and surly as usual, though he did not bare his teeth at Harry. A positive thing, as Harry hadn’t yet figured out how he was going to convince the guard to let him in.

“I don’t know the password,” Harry started, standing straight and not fidgeting as a student would. “But the Headmaster is unwell, and I won’t leave him alone.”

The gargoyle gave him an assessing look, before blinking its stone eyes and grumbling.

“You, Harry Potter, have not required a password since the Headmaster took office.”

Harry blinked in surprise as the gargoyle moved aside.

“I haven’t?”

“The Headmaster has been watching for your safety, as well.” With that, the gargoyle crossed his arms again and hunkered down slightly, making it clear that he wouldn’t answer any further questions.

Harry rode the circular stairs up, thinking of what the gargoyle had insinuated. By setting his wards so that Harry could enter without a password, Snape had created a safe haven for Harry, had he ever managed to sneak into the castle during his year away camping. He could only come to one conclusion, and it made Harry more determined not to let Snape shutter himself away in depression.

“Hh!” Harry exhaled, stepping off the stairs and nearly tripping. Leaning against the door of Snape’s office were two students, dressed in murky grey Hogwarts robes. One boy, one girl, their house crests indistinguishable but the deadened glare on their faces unmistakable.

“I know your message. I’ll go to the dungeons,” Harry promised, clutching his arm in reflex at being startled.

Neither ghost moved, and Harry wondered if he’d have to walk through them. The male student then lifted his arm, and Harry’s throat caught as he saw the wand pointed at him. It was a long wand, but the details were lost in the dim light of Snape’s outer hallway. Harry felt a flash of information jolt past his eyes – everything he’d learned of ghosts in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and everything he knew they could really do, courtesy of Peeves.

Before he could demand the wand be put away, the boy turned to the side and mouthed the spell _lumos_. Harry watched, but no light came from the wand, and he wasn’t sure if it was because ghosts couldn’t cast, or another reason. After the spell failed, the ghost gave him an accusatory look and jabbed the wand in his direction.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, not moving an inch closer to the ghosts. “You don’t have magic? Can ghosts do magic?”

The boy angrily slashed his wand at Harry, causing Harry to flinch badly and close his eyes. When he opened them he found the entrance way completely empty, and exhaled a bit of relief at the reprieve. He took one step forward and immediately felt the mud squish under his foot, knocking his balance a little as he slid a fraction on the stone floor. Two sets of muddy footprints, black muck from the Black Lake, led from the doorway of Snape’s office to the circular stairs, and it looked like whomever had made the footprints had walked right through Harry.

...

Ginny and Neville had a small one-room accommodation, at the base of Ravenclaw tower. It was L shaped, with the bed tucked into the far corner and curtained from the main room, but Harry still apologised when he knocked on the door. It was half ten, and he felt that he was being rude by visiting that late.

“Harry,” Neville said, opening the door wide. His dress robes were partially undone, and his hair was unruly and ruffled, as if he’d been running his hands through it all night.

“Neville. I didn’t mean to call so late, I just…”

“Nah, come in. We’ll have a tea,” Neville shrugged, moving back from the door. There was a little three cabinet strip on the closest wall to the door, with a half sink, kettle, and cold drawer. Neville used magic to set the tea preparation, and gestured to the couch.

“Did you hear anything from the Aurors?” Neville asked, thumping down onto a chair across from Harry.

“Nothing. They can’t trace it, and no one saw anyone with their wand drawn,” Harry answered. He looked up as one of the side doors opened, and Ginny stepped out of what must have been the washroom.

“Hi Harry,” she said, blushing slightly and trying to figure out where to best sit without being awkward.

There was silence for a few minutes as they listened to the kettle build itself up to a boil.

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner,” Ginny said, resting on the arm of Neville’s chair.

“Don’t,” Harry said, giving them both a smile. “There’s no need to apologise. Neville’s a much better looking hero than I am.”

“Shut up, Harry,” Neville said, his cheeks slightly flushed as he stood to make the tea. Ginny gave him an amused and hopeful look, almost as if she’d expected him to be angry and was going to take whatever she could get.

“We went through hell last year,” Harry quietly said. “I’m not going to make you feel guilty for being happy.”

“You’ll find your hero too, Harry,” Ginny said, rising from the chair and giving him a careful hug, twisting her body to protect her injured arm. “I’m off; I took a potion earlier for this and it makes me sleepy.”

“Night then, Gin,” Harry said, accepting his tea mug from Neville. A cup and bowl were floating lazily behind Neville.

They both waited until Ginny had slipped between the heavy curtains of the bed area, and the tea had been doctored appropriately with milk and sugar.

“Was she depressed when it happened?” Harry asked, speaking quietly. Neville paused in the stirring of his tea, as if in thought, and then began stirring again.

“Very. She was sad and angry about the loss, and what it meant for quidditch,” Neville replied, a quick glance over his shoulder toward the curtains. “But I think it was also the idea that because she couldn’t be that person anymore, she wasn’t worth anything.”

Harry nodded, sipping at the tea. It was still too hot to really drink, but his motions were more of automation as he thought.

“What stopped it?” Harry asked, trying to picture Ginny, the girl who went for everything she wanted, lying in bed and refusing to get up.

Neville shrugged and summoned a pack of biscuits.

“I think she eventually realised I wasn’t leaving. And we’ve been trying to find obscure cures.”

“I thought Madame Pomfrey didn’t know what the curse was,” Harry asked, snagging a biscuit.

“She doesn’t,” Neville replied. “But if it caused nerve damage, and we find something that repairs nerves, it won’t be perfect but maybe it’ll do something.”

Harry looked around the room, trying to make his next question casually offhanded.

“Have you found anything for throats?”

Neville studied him for a few seconds before answering.

“Not that I remember. But that does remind me.”

He dug around in the small desk behind his chair for a moment before withdrawing a book; a small purple/brown book that looked like it hadn’t seen better days in ten years.

Harry’s eyes never left the book as Neville placed it on the coffee table. The silvery title shone at him, and the speckled silver of the lines at the bottom of the book broken from being rubbed and bumped on the table so often. And the large splotch that Harry knew would be on the back, which he’d spent hours wondering what potion or ingredient had been the source of the stain.

“Snape’s book,” Harry said, flipping it open and seeing the familiar writing inside. _This book is the property of the Half Blood Prince._ “Where did you get this? I thought it was destroyed.”

“In the fire?” Neville asked, dipping a biscuit into his tea. “Ginny helped me find it last fall, long before the battle. Snape’s a huge arse, but he is a bit of a genius.”

“Just a bit,” Harry agreed, flipping through the book and feeling a comfortable warmth in his tummy. “I wonder if it’ll have anything in here about healing throats.”

“I doubt it,” Neville said, “It’s just a school book.”

Harry continued flipping through the pages, his fingers tracing over the scribbled writing of a younger Severus Snape, remembering the suspicions of his sixth year, and the trust he’d put into his mysterious friend the Prince.

“Harry,” Neville asked, watching him carefully. “You’re…you’re really not upset about Ginny, are you.”

It wasn’t quite a question, and even if it had been intoned as such, Harry knew that wasn’t what Neville had been asking.

“No, I’m not,” Harry finally answered. He kept eye contact with his friend, watching for Neville’s reaction, and was relieved when Neville just nodded and took another drink. He knew that Neville wouldn’t have reacted poorly, but some fears didn’t have any rationality to them.

“Do you want to talk about McGon –” Neville started, but Harry shook his head rapidly.

“No, that’s not what I came for,” Harry asserted, placing his now empty cup back on the coffee table. “In fact, it might actually be worse than talking about her. I need to check something in the dungeons, and I’m not quite…I don’t think I should go alone.”

…

"Just so you know, Harry, I really don't want to do this," Neville said, his wand drawn and pointing at the long hallway.

"Yeah. Yeah I get that," Harry agreed, his own wand out. They were at the stairs to the lower dungeons, near the potions storeroom where the eerie ghost boy had climbed up and down the ladder toward Harry.

"You sure there's something down there?" Neville asked, shrugging his shoulders and righting his lopsided cardigan. He’d changed out of his dress robes for the expedition, but Harry still couldn’t figure out why cardigans were his go-to clothing of choice.

"Can't you feel it?" Harry quietly asked, casting a silent lumos and taking a step forward.

"I was rather hoping you didn't," Neville muttered.

"I wish," Harry replied, making slow progress down the hall. The portraits were all empty, their occupants preferring to stay up and socialise with the living humans in the upper floors of the castle.  The air was stale, and Harry imagined he could taste mouldy paper in his mouth as they progressed. The floor was mostly dry, but there were some grimy spots with a wet spongy moss that was extremely slippery.

"Snape mentioned knowing that there was something happening down here. That's why he warded it."

They reached the first of the lower dungeon classrooms - a test room for students needing to practise potions outside of class. The door was slightly swollen, but opened without much force and Harry took a deep breath as he realised that this room did have charms on it against flooding, and hadn't suffered any damage in the flood. Harry didn't know what the ghosts wanted him to look for, but he assumed that they would be rather obvious when he got close enough to it.

"Where is Snape?" Neville asked, peeking into a storage cupboard into the corner of the room.

Harry, his hand inches from a large cauldron, paused to think of an answer.  Snape had quite figuratively fallen apart when McGonagall died, and Harry wasn't entirely certain that the news should be shared. After all, Snape was still holed up in his quarters, drugged to sleep for the next ten to twelve hours.

"He's grieving," Harry said, not giving any further details. Leaning over the cauldron, Harry startled at seeing two green eyes peering back up at him. It was only his reflection, on water left in the cauldron, but Harry still scowled at it. "Lets go to the next room."

"Do you think what's hiding down here is what killed her?" Neville asked, following him out of the room. They marked the door with a small Order of the Phoenix symbol, just to keep track of what they'd already checked.

"I don't..." Harry started, his voice breaking for a moment. "I don't understand why it had to be her."

The hallway widened a little, as it approached a cross section and two old sets of armour standing at attention. Their weapons were rusted and boots melded into the dirty stone floor, and there was a piece of seaweed twirled around the bottom part of the lance of one knight. The smell of the hallway to the left was a lot stronger than the one to the right; a mouldy smell of stone that had been left too long in damp water and air. As much as he didn't want to, Harry was fairly certain that if they were going to find anything, it would be down in the part of the dungeons that had suffered the most damage in the floods.

"Lumos maxima!" Harry cast, his eyes working feverishly to check that there was nothing at the far end of the hall. A droopy Slytherin banner at the far end flared up with the light, but faded back into the shadows as Harry's spell dissipated.

"Can’t keep that up very long, eh Harry?" Neville teased, nudging Harry's shoulder.

"Shut up," Harry muttered. "I was just checking something."

"Sure, sure," Neville grinned, lifting his arm to cast, as if he were fishing.

"Lumos maxima!" The spell bounced down the hall, his aim less true than Harry's, but effective enough. The ball of light sailed toward the Slytherin banner, but instead of hitting it, lit up four students standing at the end of the hall.

"What the hell!" Neville exclaimed, as they both jumped to a duelling pose, with their wands high and steady. "You saw that right, four students?"

His arm trembling slightly, Harry only nodded, not wanting to tell Neville that he'd seen those students on a regular basis over the past two weeks. Raising his wand higher again, Harry's spell was slightly weaker than the last time, but still silently flew down the hall toward the banner. It hit unhindered, and he felt strangely disappointed to see the hallway clear. Not because he wanted to see the ghosts, but because he didn't want to play their games.

“Can ghosts cast the killing curse?” Harry asked, looking around them quickly to see if they had any other visitors.

“I don’t think so,” Neville answered, still on guard. “But Peeves is still able to get up to a lot of trouble.”

“Sure, but that’s Peeves. Maybe those are just regular school ghosts,” Harry reasoned, still knowing that the ghosts likely were of students that had died in the battle.

“That’d make sense. Just ghosts,” Neville agreed.

"Let's check the other hall, yeah?" Harry asked, after another few seconds of checking.

“Yeah.”

The other hallway led to storage rooms and a small gym that had been installed for use of the students and staff.  The storage rooms were rather small, but opened with a forceful alohamora and revealed more spiders and flies than anything useful. Then again, Harry didn’t exactly know what the ghosts wanted him to find in the dungeons. He was fairly certain though that spiders weren’t it, not this time.

“The Carrows used to play Hide and Go Crucio down here,” Neville said, speaking just above a whisper. Their voices echoed in the empty halls, and it was a bit unsettling how loud the echo was.

“God Neville, I had no idea it was that bad,” Harry exhaled, feeling a rush of guilt hit him. “I thought, if I left…”

“It was worth the price,” Neville determinedly responded, his wand light casting a shadow over the large scar on his cheek.

“Kids shouldn’t have had to pay,” Harry muttered, taking a step forward and landing in a puddle of water. “Oh, eugh.”

He shone his light down at the ground and grimaced, spotting the black reflection of puddles all along the hallway.

“I thought the elves got rid of all the water,” Harry said, lifting his foot and shaking it off. Neville’s wand slowly arched down the hall, the light bouncing off the watery floor and lighting up a set of chains hanging from a doorway.

“Another souvenir from the Carrows,” Neville calmly said, walking toward the chains to get a closer look. Harry slowly made his way over as well, and winced as he heard another distant splash. A quick glance down showed Harry that he wasn’t the unfortunate one to have stepped in a puddle.

“There’s no cuffs on these,” Harry said, giving them a look. They were rusted and hanging limply, the paint flicking off where the rust was eating through. Harry was certain that the rust hadn’t been solely the cause of the flood, because the chains looked like they’d been hanging in disuse for much longer than a month and a half.

“Is this what you’re looking for down here?” Neville asked, picking up one of the chains and holding it out.

“I don’t think…” Harry’s sentence trailed off as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck move, just a shiver of movement as if a slight breeze had been blown across the back.

“Stupefy!” Harry yelled, firing his spell blindly down the hall where they’d originally started. His spell hit the wall and cast off chips of stone and dust into the hallway, and Harry’s eyes widened as he watched the dust fleck and settle over the outline of a man with a long robe or outer cloak on.

“Harry!” Neville grunted, twisting against the chains, which now had a firm grip around his middle and chest. The outline vanished, and Harry turned only slightly to see Neville struggling against the rusted metal links, which were being pulled back through the door as if they were being wound from the inside. Neville, his hands barely stopping the chains from pressing so hard against his chest, didn’t seem to notice that he was being pulled back against the door. Harry quickly saw that if the chains pulled tight enough, Neville would be literally crushed against the wood.

A bitter metallic taste assaulted his tongue as he opened his mouth to cast a spell; a taste that he imagined came from the chains.

“FINITE INCANTATEM,” Harry cast, as strongly as he could as he watched one of his best friends struggle. To his surprise, the chains immediately gave way and clattered to the floor. Neville stumbled forward toward Harry, out of reach of the chains and coughing as he rubbed his chest.

“What the hell was that,” Neville said, gasping slightly.

“I think it was attempted murder,” Harry grimly answered, thumping Neville’s back as he stared at the hall where the man had been. “Forget it. The Aurors can deal with this shit.”

Before Neville could reply, Harry called Winky and had her apparate them out of the dungeons.

…….

After a rather lively discussion with some Aurors, Harry returned to the Headmaster’s office and was able to pass through the stairs and the door without encountering any ghosts. He made sure to lock and ward the door to Snape’s private quarters as he passed through, even though he was fairly certain that the ghosts didn’t care one way or another what protections were put in place.

The room felt warm, as the fire Harry had lit earlier hadn’t quite died in the grate. Too tired to fully look around Snape’s flat, and fully aware of what a privacy breach that would be considered, Harry made for the downstairs loo to wash the grime of the night off himself. He also hoped the warm shower would help him sleep, as he suspected it would be difficult coming.

Once freshly washed, Harry found a new towel in the washroom cupboard and transfigured it into a set of pyjamas. He didn’t feel like dealing with the house elves again, so it would have to do.

The couch upstairs looked uncomfortable, but it had plenty of blankets, and more importantly, it was located in a room where Harry felt marginally protected. He gave one final check to Snape before settling in, the man lying so motionless that for a horrible second Harry thought he’d stopped breathing.

Twisting onto his side, Harry picked up the letter billfold from the coffee table and opened it. There was a folded piece of muggle notebook paper inside, and Harry’s fingers played with the fringe from where it had been torn out of the spiral rings.

_Harry,_

_This is a horrible joke, right? You’re just playing a game? Somehow I know you’re not, because the war is over and we’ve lost too many people to joke about that._

_I don’t know what to say either._

_I haven’t told Hermione, because she’s just met her parents again and she’s very nervous about reversing the obliviation. I can’t take someone else from her._

_As for Snape, he’s been through hell. We all have. And he’s lost his voice, which is his only real power. Except for that swooping evil bat thing he does. He’s ugly and mean and antisocial, but he commands people with his voice. And if he doesn’t have it, maybe he doesn’t feel like ‘Snape’ anymore._

_In the dorms after Sirius died, the only way you stopped crying in your sleep was when I put my hand on your back._

_Send another letter soon; keep me updated._

_Ron._

Harry read the letter three times over before folding it carefully back up and placing it and the billfold into his shoes that were at the base of the couch.

“Touch Snape to make him feel better,” Harry said, removing his spectacles and putting them on the coffee table. “And who is going to heal me from whatever hex he casts?”

….

Snape felt absolutely wretched. His bones ached and muscles sent warning pains that if he stretched too fast they'd seize up on him. He was lying in his own bed, but the room felt unnaturally warm, and the curtains had been opened, something Snape never did while he slept. In his own wingback chair, comfortable black-corduroy with worn spots from Snape's daily use of it, there was a dark shadow and short tips of black hair.

Potter.

Snape shut his eyes again, but he couldn't escape the pained breath that escaped as his memory returned of the night before. He heard movement from the area of the chair, but couldn't see as he'd pressed his eyes as strongly as he could, but still couldn't stop the few tears that had escaped out the sides of his eyes. They ran down the worry lines of his face, insultingly ticklish on his cheeks, though he made no move to wipe them. Minerva was gone. Minerva McGonagall, his rival Head of House, his Order of the Phoenix colleague, the one person he'd had to prove himself most to (beside Albus Dumbledore) when he left the Dark Lord's service. The very same Minerva that had mentored him, and took tea with him, during some of his roughest days.

Snape felt a warm cloth on his face and lashed out blindly, his hands grabbing at the air where he figured Potter was. The movement wrenched his dormant muscles but Snape still managed a strong grasp on Potter's shirt. He glared, eyes fully open now, as Potter fought back. Snape wanted to punch, to kick, to throw something, and Potter was the perfect target. Potter grabbed at his shoulders and pushed him back down, his eyes blazing green like a Floo fire and his lips taught as he struggled against Snape.

"Stop," Potter commanded, which made Snape want to fight more. Minerva had been murdered, outside of the war, and Snape wanted someone to pay.

"Eugh," Snape grunted, twisting in the bed to throw Potter's balance off. He was weighted down by the heavy bedclothes, and sluggish limbs.

"Don't talk, for Christ’s sake," Potter admonished, and his hands vanished from Snape's shirt. Snape felt bereft of the contact, and then cursed at himself for feeling it. A moment later Potter returned, with a numbing salve for his throat, and his notebook.

"The Aurors have been through the castle, and were questioning people all night," Potter said, turning the wingback chair to face Snape. Snape noticed that Potter was still in the same clothes he'd worn the night before, and that a blanket that wasn't normally on the chair had been scrunched up against the arm of it.   
  
-I don't want you here- Snape wrote, throwing the notebook at Potter. He dragged himself up to a sitting position, but didn't bother to make any other move to get out of bed.

"I'm aware of that," Potter scoffed, tossing the book back. “Last night, after you drugged yourself, Neville and I went to the dungeons. And someone tried to kill him.”

Snape stared blankly at Potter, utterly unimpressed. He slowly picked up the blanket, wrapping it up tighter around himself as he watched Potter’s expectant expression.

“Did you not hear me?” Potter repeated, his face turning splotchy at his cheeks.

Snape glared at him before writing a response.

-The Aurors are here, as you have said. What exactly did you expect me to do?-

Potter huffed in irritation as he read the reply.

“I expected you to show some concern about one of your students,” Potter replied, standing up and walking to the window beside Snape’s bed. He yanked the curtains back, allowing in light bright enough that caused Snape to hiss at him.

“I expected you to help me find whoever did this,” Potter continued, kicking Snape’s boots closer to the bed so he wouldn’t trip on them. “I expected, I don’t know. I didn’t expect you to fall apart. You’ve always been the toughest bastard I’ve ever known.”

Potter looked down at the carpet for a moment, before casting another freshening charm on the spot where Snape had landed the night before.

Snape scowled and wrote another message in the notebook.

-I am not a bastard, you irritating little twit.-

Potter smiled, just a flash of a smile, before he started folding the blankets on the couch he had slept on.

“No, all right. Technically true. But you are human, and that’s throwing me for a bit of a loop at the moment.”

Snape sighed and slipped back down under the covers.

-Go away, Potter. I am not leaving this bed and I have no desire to talk to you.-

To his absolute surprise, Potter studied him for a minute and left without argument.

…..

Harry took a long and inconvenient route to the infirmary, checking the corners and behind tapestries as he went, just in case anything was hiding there. So far the targets had been Professor McGonagall and Neville, but Harry knew it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to expect himself to be somewhere on the list.

By the time he arrived at the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey had just finished the morning round of medicine and was filling out charts in her office. She waved him in and he sat down awkwardly, remembering just how often she had seen to him as a younger student.

“Is this about Mr Longbottom and the bruising on his chest?” she bluntly asked, using tiny and impeccable writing to fill out a chart.

“No, but he was all right when I left him last night,” Harry answered, watching her quill move. “He’s still okay, right?”

“Only bruises,” she replied, finally putting her quill down. “What have you come to ask me about, Mr Potter?”

“It’s about the Headmaster,” Harry said, pausing to think of how best to word his question. Madam Pomfrey said nothing, remaining patiently at her desk.

“He said it would just take time for his voice to heal. But there is another faster way, isn’t there?” Harry said, not quite with the intonation of a question.

“Of course,” she said, sighing slightly as she pushed back her chair. A row of filing cabinets stood on the far wall, and Pomfrey fetched a box out of the top drawer of the one in the corner.

“There is a regenerative potion that can be brewed, and when administered directly to the larynx, enable the tissue to mend and regrow itself at a rapid rate.”

With the box on the table, Pomfrey opened it to show Harry the contents. A stoppered and wax-sealed bottle of potion, a long muggle syringe, a salve that Harry couldn’t read the label of, and an empty phial.

“What’s the phial for?” Harry asked, his eyes glued to the huge syringe.

“Blood containing the antivenin,” Pomfrey answered matter-of-factly. “I special-ordered this kit four days after the battle and it has sat in that drawer, waiting.”

“He needs blood from someone bitten by Nagini,” Harry said, looking up as the penny dropped.

“And with a matching blood type.”

“Oh,” Harry said, tapping his hands against his thigh. “Can you tell with your wand? Or do you have to cut my finger –”

“You don’t match, Mr Potter,” Pomfrey gently said. “Your blood type is listed in your medical records.”

Harry slumped slightly and said nothing. He wanted to help Snape, wanted to do what he could to get the man’s voice back and hear his acerbic tone once again. Once again, he was reminded that even though he could do magic, he couldn’t fix everything.

“Fortunately, Mr Weasley is a match. The possibility is there,” Pomfrey continued, and Harry’s attention snapped back.

“Why didn’t he ask? Arthur would gladly help!”

“Because he is the Headmaster, Mr Potter,” she answered. “And agreeing to have a needle inserted into the throat as treatment requires a level of trust that I don’t believe Severus has ever had with anyone.”

Harry grimaced at the thought, and rubbed his throat.

“He just has to trust you though, doesn’t he? You’re the mediwitch, so you’re the one that gives the needle.”

“Yes,” she answered, carefully closing the box and returning it to the filing cabinet. “But this is a very precise operation, and it must be done without magic. In the few cases it has been done, the patient has been held by someone else, in order to calm them enough for it to proceed.”

“Calm enough,” Harry repeated, picturing the large needle. “Is it painful?”

Madam Pomfrey walked around her desk and over to where Harry was sitting, making him more than a little wary of what she planned to do.

“The larynges are surrounded by cartilages, Mr Potter,” Pomfrey said, reaching toward him and pinching the top of Harry’s ear. “Like here.”

“Ow,” Harry cringed, pulling away.

“The needle must pass through cartilage, in order to administer the potion to the vocal folds that were damaged. It will be very painful, and if Severus moves, there is a likelihood the cure will not be effective and he may damage his throat further.”

She opened the office door behind Harry and gestured to the hall, making Harry jump up out of the chair.

“Okay. So I need to convince Mr Weasley to give blood for the potion, and Snape to…to let us administer it.”

Pomfrey gave him a small little smile as she turned toward the ward.

“You may find that defeating You Know Who was easier.”

…

 

The only ghost Harry encountered on the way back to Snape’s office was Peeves, and it took him two minutes to realise that Peeves was mimicking his brooding walk down the hall.

“Very funny, Peeves,” Harry said, trying to keep his tone non-insulting. As irritating as Peeves was, he had been remarkably well behaved during the rebuilding of the castle, and Harry preferred him that way.

“Peeves lives to entertain,” the poltergeist said, tipping his hat at Harry. He ignored Harry’s rolling eyes.

“So you’ll be happy when the castle is back to normal?” Harry asked, as Peeves lazily floated in the air.

“Always happy to see the ickle first years,” Peeves replied, with a ghostly glint in his eye. His expression turned serious a moment after, and Harry was taken aback. “But things won’t be normal until the dungeons are cleared, Potty Potter.”

Before Harry had the chance to ask for clarification, or to see if Peeves knew anything he didn’t, Peeves vanished into the stone walls.

“Bloody ghosts,” Harry muttered, turning around to head back to Snape’s quarters. He wanted a nap, but he also wanted to try something new to get the man up and out of bed. It just wasn’t normal to see Snape giving up and hiding out.

“Mr Potter,” a deep voice said, and Harry startled badly as he looked up. Three Aurors were in the hallway in front of them, dressed in their maroon robes, but with the clasps undone in a casual manner.

“Do you recognize the writing on this?” the one on the far left asked, handing Harry a piece of paper. He studied it, squinting his eyes, but did not recognise the childish scrawl. It was a list of names, with McGonagall’s at the top, followed closely by Neville’s, Snape’s, and his own.

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. His stomach felt queasy, as he hadn’t had breakfast yet and he was quite certain he knew exactly what the list represented.

“I think it’s time you told us exactly how You Know Who died,” the middle Auror said, giving Harry a concerned look. Harry saw what they were thinking, but was too tired to fully care. He knew Voldemort was dead, that Voldemort couldn’t be the person trying to murder people at Hogwarts now. As unsettling as it was to not know who was responsible, Harry was willing to give the Aurors his memory of the event, and let them figure it out.

“You’ll need a pensieve,” Harry said, sticking his hands in his jeans pockets.

…

With a half finished bowl of cereal on his right, and a cup of hot coffee on his left, Harry sat at the long end of a conference table in a downstairs classroom. The Aurors had set it up to hold interviews, and they’d asked him to stay while all three went into his memory. During that time, Harry had managed to write a letter to Arthur Weasley, ask a house elf to check in on Neville, respond to Ron’s letter, and plan his next idea to get Snape up and back to normal.

He studied the three Aurors at the end of the table, how all three appeared to have passed out over the pensieve bowl. He could tell from their ridged stances that they hadn’t though, and he was slightly curious to know what part of the memory they were in. He didn’t want to see it again, but for some reason he wanted to know. No sounds or images escaped from the pensieve, but a few seconds later all three Aurors flinched where they stood, and Harry then had a fairly clear idea what they had just seen.

_“SNAPE!” Harry bellowed, tearing the bedclothes off Snape’s bed. Nagini had wrapped herself around his feet, and his natural instinct to curl up into a protective foetal position had actually brought Snape’s head and neck closer to her mouth._

_“Stupefy!” Harry yelled, firing at the snake. He missed Nagini, but the spell hit Snape and his sudden freezing distracted Nagini for a few seconds._

_“Reducto,” Harry growled, his wand slashing at Nagini and the spell tearing apart the snake, freeing Snape’s legs. Nagini hissed wildly, rearing back to bite at Harry, but he was prepared and fired off the Killing Curse. Nagini’s body hadn’t even hit the ground when Harry turned back to Snape, releasing him from the body bind and trying to wrap his many wounds with the bedclothes._

_“You’ll be okay,” Harry pleaded, not sure if he was convincing himself or Snape. Snape’s panicked eyes were worrying him. “It’s all right. I won’t let you die.”_

_Harry wasn’t entirely certain if sealing Snape’s wounds for travel would help or hinder, as he didn’t want to trap the snake venom in Snape’s blood. So he just wrapped the man, set a feather light charm on him, and carried him through the door._

_Harry had expected damage to the front room, water seepage from the flooding and perhaps a dented door from whoever would try to enter. He absolutely did not expect to see Voldemort sitting in one of the easy chairs, looking absolutely demented as he sipped wine from a glass and toyed with his wand._

_“Finally, Harry Potter…” Voldemort started, an ugly smile on his face as he rose from his chair. The smile slipped slightly as the mess of the room behind Harry became slightly more visible, including the dead snake._

_“Go to hell!” Harry howled in frustration, clutching onto Snape tighter as he wished with everything he could that Voldemort would just curl up and die._

_Voldemort didn’t, but he did start to smoulder, and Harry watched in astonishment as Voldemort’s robes started smoking, and then caught fire. It wasn’t a trick; Harry knew by the twisting and desperate attempts to put out the fire that Voldemort wasn’t faking it. It was then that he remembered what Dumbledore had told him about the horcruxes, and what Snape had offhandedly mentioned about the snake. Nagini had always had the most protection in the last month that Snape had attended Death Eater meetings. He’d thought it peculiar, as the Death Eaters all knew not to touch her, but Harry now knew what it meant. Nagini had been a horcrux._

_It took less than a minute for Voldemort to die, his robes burning hot and fast, cooking him from the inside. Harry thought it very curious that when Voldemort was gone, the fire put itself out and the robes remained undamaged. Even Voldemort’s body remained mostly undamaged, though the skin was very reddened._

_“It worked,” Harry said, his voice bland with dull surprise. He’d managed to actually send someone to hell._

_Clutching Snape tighter, Harry left the room and took off down the wet halls, running toward the hospital wing._

_“Hold on, Severus. We’ve won.”_

It was disconcerting to have the three Aurors staring at him, but Harry withstood the scrutiny. He knew he’d be under some sort of watch sooner or later; after all, one cannot simply just tell someone to go to hell and have it happen. That sort of power in the wizarding world was dangerous.

Finally, one of them coughed politely and spoke.

“Approximately how far were you from You Know Who when your spell was cast?”

Harry shrugged.

“I was a bit distracted, I’m not really sure.”  Harry didn’t bother to correct them on the spell, because he wasn’t entirely certain he’d cast anything.

“Perhaps you could show us?”

Harry realised his delay on getting back to the Headmaster’s office would be much longer if he didn’t take them down there, so he nodded and stood up.

“I’ve an appointment with the Headmaster in twenty minutes,” Harry lied. “But I’ll show you the room. I think there’s a burn mark on the floor.”

….

The walk to the old abandoned flat that they’d hidden out in took much longer than the frantic run that Harry had fled it. The halls were lit with low flames from the sconces, and though the elves had done magic to clean most of the area, the flat itself was in the lower part of the dungeons and smelled rather rank from the stagnant Black Lake water. It clung around in small puddles against the walls of the hall, and Harry suspected it would be days before any of the tapestries started to dry.

Harry had automatically taken his wand out as they walked, as after Neville’s experience the night before, Harry was not going to take any chances. As it was, Harry didn’t need to warn the Aurors of the same, as they seemed to sense the same disturbance in dark remnant magic that he had.

“We’re almost there,” Harry said, trying to somehow breathe through his ears and not take in the scent of dank stone.

“Merlin, did they leave the bloody body down here?” one of the Aurors muttered, coughing slightly.

Slightly embarrassed, Harry remembered that he was, in fact, a wizard and quickly cast a bubblehead charm on himself. Funny looking or not, Harry had had enough of how the smell of the dungeons seemed to seep into his pores and not leave.

He stopped in front of a nondescript plaque on the wall, which had two dull swords crossed on it. Harry pulled the left sword slightly out of its bracket, and a crack formed in the wall behind, creating a seam in the shape of a doorway. As the door opened, Harry heard another cough directly behind him, and turned just in time to see the Aurors cast their own bubblehead charms.

“We’ll go in first, Mr Potter,” the tallest Auror said. Normally Harry would have protested slightly, after all he was the one to have defeated Voldemort in that very room. However, his fight was done, and if the Aurors wanted to face whatever was in there first, that was fine with him. Harry simply nodded, and watched over the shoulder of the shorter Auror, where one of the student ghosts was standing in the distance.

The ghost was staring at Harry, her robes hanging sodden and heavily down as she hovered. Harry turned to the door, glancing at it before returning his gaze to the ghost. She nodded, and Harry suddenly suspected that inside the flat would not look the same as when he’d last left it.

“Oh hell!” the taller Auror blurted, and Harry steeled himself to enter.

The small living room part of the flat was well lit, and the furniture had been pushed to the walls. Only a table had been left in the centre, and on that table were the bodies of four students. All dressed in Hogwarts robes; the three boys and one girl looked like they’d merely been sleeping. Several empty potion bottles were littered about the table, three books on dark magic from the Restricted Section of the library were stacked on a side table, and there was, curiously, a copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One_ , on the seat of the chair Voldemort had been in.

“The burn marks are from me,” Harry said, as the Aurors tried to take stock of what the four bodies on the table meant. One by one they turned to stare at him, and Harry pointed to the floor by the chair that was slightly charred. “The bodies definitely weren’t there before.”

There was silence in the room for a few seconds, before the middle Auror took out a rather battered looking notebook.

“Thank you, Mr Potter. I believe that’s all for now.”

Harry left without another word. He had no desire to spend any more time in that room, and was involved enough with the dead students as it was.

…

“Snape!” Harry called, walking through the front office of the Headmaster’s tower. He had a tray from the kitchens, with hot porridge, a pot of brown sugar, a hot teapot, and some fruit. At just past ten it was a bit late for breakfast, but Harry figured that Snape was likely still buried under the covers.

He pressed the door open to enter Snape’s personal quarters, and found that the curtains had been drawn. The man was indeed still in bed, though there was now another notepad on the bedside cabinet, a half empty glass of water, and another potion phial.

“You haven’t taken another dose, have you?” Harry asked, glaring at the bed as he put the tray down on Snape’s coffee table.

A balled up piece of paper hit his head as Harry was spooning oatmeal into a smaller bowl, and he scowled as he opened it.

-As a potions student you should KNOW that I cannot until twenty four hours has passed. Why are you here?-

“Because you’re just so lovely to be around,” Harry instinctively muttered. He finished pouring his bowl, made one for Snape too, and put a healthy amount of brown sugar over both.

“It’s morning,” Harry said, loudly enough that Snape could hear him. “You need to eat.”

As he walked toward the bed he saw the ugly look Snape was giving him, but didn’t flinch.

“Years ago, someone made a promise with his life to protect me. Now I’m returning the favour.”

Snape’s glare stayed on his face, but he did sit up enough to take the bowl from Harry. He was still wearing his dress shirt from the night before, and a small shadow of stubble had started to grow on his chin and neck. The scars on his neck were still ugly, an unnatural white against Snape’s already pale skin, and so numerous. Snape’s hands were covered too, with little white pockmarks from Nagini’s teeth.

Snape placed his bowl on the bed and took up the notepad, his writing quick and neat.

-That obligation ended when you killed the Dark Lord. What I do with my life now is none of your concern.-

Harry sighed a little, eating more of his oatmeal. Snape was watching him warily, as if to see if he would actually heed Snape’s wish and leave the man alone.

“I know McGonagall meant a lot to you – ” Harry started, only to be interrupted as Snape actually growled at him.

-You know nothing!- Snape furiously wrote, the veins in his neck stretching as his anger rose.

“I watched Sirius die!” Harry argued back, putting the bowl on the table, away from Snape’s angry hands. “It was war time, and I knew it was a very real possibility, but that doesn’t mean it hurt any less.”

-He died during the WAR,- Snape replied, tearing out the sheets from his notebook with such force that he ripped some of the letters. –Minerva had survived! There was no reason…-

Snape’s diatribe died off as he stared at Harry, his expression utterly confused.

“For the life of me, I cannot remember,” Harry hummed lowly, knowing his voice was awful, but fairly certain that Snape wouldn’t hex him for singing. Not yet.

“What made us think that we were wise and we’d never compromise.”

-What are you doing?- Snape slowly wrote, the anger seeming to have left him in the surprise of Harry’s singing.

“For the life of me, I cannot believe we ever died for these sins, we were merely freshmen,” Harry finished, his voice returning to a speaking level at the last words. Snape was still blinking at him, processing the words and what Harry meant. Had Harry known that it only took singing to throw Snape off, he would have prepared an entire soundtrack for occlumency.

“You can glare at me all you want, but don’t you think Professor McGonagall would be angry with you right now? She’d want you to keep up as Headmaster, to keep with the rebuilding of Hogwarts, and to help find out who killed her. Just like she would do for you.”

-I imagine Minerva would understand exactly why I am here- Snape wrote, much more gently on the paper than he had been moments before. He scratched at his wrist as Harry read the note, and Harry wondered if Snape was finally feeling uncomfortable to still be in his dress clothes.

“Maybe so,” Harry admitted, picking up his bowl of oatmeal again. “But I’d bet she wouldn’t let you wallow in bed either.”

Snape harrumphed at that, tapping on the notebook paper in thought.

Harry finished his breakfast and stood up to fetch the tea, noticing that Snape was making no move to eat his own porridge. By the time Harry returned to the bed, with two cups, Snape had a question for him.

-Why did you sing?-

Snape accepted the cup of tea, and watched Harry plop down onto the wooden chair at the side of the bed, a flush creeping up his face.

“When Hermione’s feeling overwhelmed, sometimes Ron sings to her.”

Snape gave him a sceptical look.

“I know. He’s really bad at it. But he loves her, and it makes her feel better,” Harry said, sipping his tea and wincing as it burnt his lips.

-You don’t love me, Potter,- Snape wrote, giving Harry the paper with a derisive look.

Harry glanced at it and shrugged, feeling the blush still on his face.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you, or make you feel better.”

Snape wrote a one-word reply as he picked up his own tea.

-Foolish.-

Harry shrugged, and attempted nonchalance.

“Maybe. But I admire you, and I want to help.”

At this Snape snorted, and it sounded rather painful to Harry’s ears, but didn’t seem to bother Snape.

-Admire a man who has been fixated on you since you were fifteen?- Snape wrote, and even the cursive descender of his letters exuded sarcasm.

“You…Fixated? In a protective way, like your promise?”

Snape rolled his eyes and started writing, and Harry wondered how the tables had been turned. Not only turned, but tossed upside down. Snape was a master of words though, and perhaps he was using fixated in a different definition.

-I rather enjoyed the trick you played on Umbridge in the Forbidden Forest, and that you continued with your little group despite of the toad’s repeated threats. You filled out respectably in your sixth year, and your magic was, at I shall say, rather _energetic_ when we fought. It’s a pity you never returned for your seventh year, as I seemed to have missed you turning into a man.-

Harry’s jaw dropped a fraction as he read the note, and he looked up to see Snape leaning back against the headboard, his eyes closed and his shoulders taut, as if he was waiting for judgement. And he was, because if Harry understood the note properly, Snape had just admitted to being attracted to Harry.

“I guess I don’t need to feel guilty for wanking over the Prince’s potion book, then,” Harry said, watching for Snape’s reaction. One eye cracked open, the eyebrow upraised, and then both were glaring at him.

-There is no need to mock me, Potter- Snape wrote, on the last piece of paper in his notebook.

“I’m not mocking you,” Harry insisted, shaking his head, trying to convince Snape that he wasn’t. From the hardened, sceptical look in Snape’s eyes though, Harry could tell that Snape wouldn’t believe him.

-Get out, Potter. Go bother someone else.- Snape wrote, ripping out the final page and throwing it to him. The bowl of oatmeal beside Snape was banished, and the man turned his back to Harry, hiding again under the blankets.

After staring at Snape’s back for a moment, Harry took the tea things to the tray, picked up his bill fold, and with a final glance at the bed, walked out to the office part of the tower to figure out what he’d done wrong this time.

…

Professor Flitwick was acting as Headmaster during Snape’s hiding out in his quarters, not by any official route, but simply because he’d been at the school longest. He looked slightly frazzled, but was happy to see Harry, and ushered Harry into his office.

They had a rather quiet conversation, regarding the rumours that were flying about the school, and the potential mass murderer that was still around. The Aurors had briefed Flitwick on the bodies found in the dungeons, and Harry reluctantly filled him in on what had happened to Neville. Harry was irritated that he’d forgotten to tell Snape about the students’ bodies in the dungeon flat, but he wasn’t sure if that would even get Snape up and moving, so he didn’t bother worrying too much.

Harry then brought out his Marauder’s Map, something Ron had mentioned in his last letter, to the effect of ‘why the hell aren’t you using it??’ After Flitwick had gleefully inspected the complicated charms on it, and asked Harry if he’d mind copying the idea, Harry asked him to look at the map and see if anyone listed was someone that shouldn’t be in the castle.

“I wasn’t here last year, so I’m not sure who is new, and who doesn’t belong,” Harry admitted.

“We had many more that left last year, than arrived,” Flitwick distractedly answered, scanning over the map. Harry’s eyes instinctively moved to the corridor where the Headmaster’s office was, and saw that Snape’s nametag was in the approximate location of his bed. Shaking his head, Harry also saw that Filch was pacing at the gargoyle guard to Snape’s stairs, no doubt arguing for entrance.

“Doesn’t Snape give out the password to his office?” Harry asked, watching Filch’s label stomp off toward the stairs.

“During the school year, yes,” Flitwick replied, tapping his finger near the library. “But Filch irritates him. There are several names on here which are unfamiliar, but you’ll have to ask the Aurors to investigate. They may be parents or villagers from Hogsmeade, who have come to help.”

“All right,” Harry agreed, slightly disappointed that nothing had come of it. “Sir? Do you know why the students in the dungeon…why they would have been laid out on a table? Instead of brought to the hospital wing?”

Flitwick sat back heavily in his chair, the stacks of books he was leaning on shifting suddenly.

“Were there runes painted on the table?” Flitwick asked, his voice quiet as if he did not wish to be overheard.

Harry blinked, trying to recall the scene.

“I don’t honestly know. There were a few books from the Restricted Section there.”

Flitwick sighed and rubbed his chin, before deciding to tell Harry what he knew.

“Rituals do not play as big of a part in magic as they used to. But there are some that still believe strongly in rituals, and they do have their benefits. For the bodies to be laid out as such, for a ritual and so closely to the time of expiration, it is highly likely that someone has stolen their magic before they could choose to stay or move on.”

Harry was quite sure his face was scrunched into an ugly grimace, but Flitwick wasn’t done.

“Without magic, witches and wizards cannot move on, nor can they properly interact with those of us who are alive. They are stuck, in a horrible in-between. If this is the case, we will soon see their silent ghosts around Hogwarts.”

Harry sat quietly, thinking over what Flitwick had said, before thanking the small professor and standing to take his leave. He did not mention that he’d already seen the ghosts.

“Harry!” Flitwick called, just as Harry was at the door. “Minerva’s funeral is being planned for Friday. If you suspect that the killer still intends to do someone harm, that is likely when it will happen.”

Harry nodded and left the room. Friday. Two days away.

….

Within the wards of Hogwarts, down by what remained of Hagrid’s hut, had been a large worn stone that had been sectioned off for apparition. Harry quickly made his way to it, and looking at the charred beams of the hut, smiled as he thought of his friend holidaying in the south of France.

Harry’s landing point was not as nice – a grimy back of grocer’s, strewn with putrid smelling rubbish tips and the odd scavenging animal. Most of the birds flew off as Harry walked toward the main street, but one belligerent pigeon chirped at him and hopped after him for a few feet. It wasn’t a far walk to the bakery, and though it was down the sort of street Harry didn’t expect anything special, he figured if Snape had come to Manchester for this bread, it must be worth it. The small taste that Harry had had was certainly delicious, and he hoped that even though it was afternoon, there would be some sort of selection left to choose from.

The shop had a huge queue, and Harry dutifully took a ticket as he tried to look around the people and see what was available. He wondered how Snape ever managed to shop here without hexing someone. Snape’s reaction earlier that morning had been one Harry somewhat expected, and he figured it would be a long shot to prove to Snape that he hadn’t been teasing or mocking the man. After fifteen minutes in queue, and getting jostled by three grumpy looking old women, Harry decided that Snape would definitely know that suffering through this meant Harry was serious.

By the time his number was called, the options had dwindled further and Harry decided that the pumpernickel bread would be the best choice. He quickly paid for his purchase, eager to escape the crowded store, and let the thoughts of the Hogwarts ghosts fill his mind as he walked back to the apparition point. What Flitwick had told him was absolutely horrible, and Harry couldn’t imagine spending an eternity stuck in between being an incomplete ghost, and being able to move on.

He also couldn’t think of who would want to steal the magic of underage students. Voldemort, certainly, Harry wouldn’t put it past the man to have stolen magic from anyone he could have in order to make himself more powerful. But Harry didn’t doubt that Voldemort was dead, not only because he watched him die, but because Harry’s scar hadn’t given him any feeling, good or bad, since that moment.

Just as Harry passed the shop to go back to where the tips were, he heard the chirping of an owl and looked up to spot Errol headed his way. Harry smiled and prepared to catch the bird, as Errol hadn’t improved on his landing in the past six years. Taking the note, he let Errol wander off toward the tip in search of food.

_Dear Harry,_

_I have already sent off the required phials to Poppy Pomfrey. Severus Snape is a proud man, but he deserves to be fully healed after the war, even if he won’t ask for it._

_Snape’s cure is slightly different from mine, though I see he has to have a muggle needle as well! Ingenious how the muggles have advanced so far in medical training and treatments, and it’s a good thing too. Squibs in our world don’t always have access to magic, and need the help._

_Keep me informed on his progress! Molly says to drop by the Burrow next week, and she’ll make whatever you’d like for dinner._

_Arthur_

Harry smiled, and folded the note back up into his pocket. Not many witches and wizards would give much thought to the plight of squibs, and how much they had to rely on the muggle way of life. Just as he was about to spin away in apparition, Harry nearly skidded into the tip as a realization hit him. _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One_ had been in with the bodies. Most Hogwarts students and graduates had shoved that book to the back of their cupboards or the bottom of their trunks, but a squib would have found it resourceful. Especially a squib that had just come into some magic.

Harry frantically searched his jumper pocket for the Marauder’s Map, pulling it out and setting it to hover in the air in front of him. Muggles be damned, he wasn’t going to put the map down on a dirty tip.

His eyes searched through the castle rapidly, starting by Snape’s office, and moving outward. He finally found Filch down on the ground floor, in his office. Harry wouldn’t have thought anything of it, until he folded a section of the map over and discovered that the office was almost exactly above the abandoned flat they’d hidden in. And Filch had been trying to get into Snape’s office earlier.

“Fuck. Thanks, Errol!”

Harry snatched the map out of the air and huffed in surprise as he saw the face of one of the student ghosts right behind where the map had been.

The ghost opened its mouth, but Harry didn’t wait to try to read its lips.  He crammed the map into his back pocket and the last thing he saw was the confused look on Errol’s face as he spun away.

….

Harry ran toward one of the side entrances of the castle, taking off as he’d landed and thinking of the fastest way to get to Snape’s office. Filch hopefully hadn’t left for there yet, but Harry wasn’t certain what the man had planned, and he figured Snape was in too much of a dark mood to fully protect himself.

Snape also, like everyone else, likely had never seen Filch as anything more than an irritating caretaker.

The side door gamble paid off, as there was a broom cupboard just inside and Harry snagged an old school broom to use. He took off through the halls, the broom not quite as smooth as his own Firebolt, and definitely not as fast.

“MISTER POTTER!” Sprout bellowed, her voice echoing in the grand staircase as Harry flew by. He didn’t even turn to look, just continued toward the Headmaster’s office. Harry tried to keep his focus on task, even as two of the student ghosts appeared in the hall, silently watching him fly by.

Approaching the gargoyle guard, Harry finally slowed and skidded his feet along the hall to avoid crashing into the stone wall.

“Is Filch up there?” Harry demanded, his hair wild and his wand in hand. Filch had still been in his office when Harry had last checked the map, but in the five minutes it had taken him to get to Snape’s door, Harry knew Filch could have gone anywhere. The man had been caretaker of Hogwarts for decades, and likely knew it almost as well as the twins.

The gargoyle looked at him strangely.

“He has just gone up, to speak to the Headmaster about Professor McGonagall’s funeral.”

“Fuck!” Harry swore. “I need to go in, Snape’s in danger.”

The gargoyle moved aside without a word, and Harry scrambled onto the stairs. He wondered if running up them would make them move faster, and was about to try, when an icy cold feeling poured over his shoulder. Harry turned to the side, and stared straight into the ghostly face of Owen Cauldwell, a Hufflepuff that Harry remembered watching the Sorting ceremony for in his fourth year. At the top of the stairs were two more ghosts, a Slytherin and a Ravenclaw, and another Hufflepuff guarded the door.

They all looked blankly at Harry, their wands in their hands loosely by their sides.

“Look, I know who is doing this to you now. And I’ll do my best to stop him,” Harry promised, making eye contact with the ghosts. He didn’t actually know if stopping Filch would return their magic, but he didn’t want to mention that.

A large bang sounded from the other side of the door, and Harry decided he couldn’t wait any further. Pushing through the ghosts and fighting the freezing cold feeling, Harry yanked open the office door and stepped inside, wand at the ready.

“Get away from him, Filch,” Harry demanded, pointing his wand at Filch’s head. Snape was actually seated at his desk, looking absolutely miserable and like he had just thrown an outer robe over his dress clothes from the night before.  The room was unnaturally cold, and Filch was standing by the desk, one hand in his pocket and the other clenched by his side. A book had tipped over onto the floor, likely the source of the noise Harry had heard.

“Always getting into other people’s business, hmm boy?” Filch asked, his eyes betraying his anger as he turned to face Harry. Filch may have thought he could take on Snape, a man who had lost the use of his voice, but Harry knew that Filch’s magic was too weak to defend against the both of them.

“The welfare of my friends will always be my business,” Harry answered, his teeth gritted as he spoke. “And I’m sure that Headmaster Snape would love to know that you’re the one who killed Minerva McGonagall.”

Snape’s face twisted into a furious expression, the intense sort of emotion Harry hadn’t seen from him since McGonagall had died, and he whipped his wand out before Filch could even see the motion. Thick black ropes sprung forth from Snape’s wand and hit Filch, knocking him off his feet.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry cast, remembering that Filch may have a wand. A small birch wand flew out of Filch’s coat pocket, the one his hand had been in, and Harry caught it easily as he moved around the desk toward Snape.

Snape’s eyes were burning as he stared with utter loathing at Filch on the ground. His wand flicked in the air, and Harry flinched as he saw Argus Filch’s spasm on the floor, a muffled yell escaping as Filch twisted to escape the pain. Harry knew Snape could do non-verbal magic, but he had thought the cruciatus curse required a rather strong verbal casting. 

Harry’s patronus sprang forward from his wand at the first call, and Harry sent it off to bring the Aurors.

“You need to stop before they get here,” Harry warned, not making a move to have Snape lower his wand.

Snape inclined his head in agreement, and cast the curse again.

“Arrrrgh! Stop it, you filthy wizard!” Filch growled, and Snape paused long enough to allow Filch to catch a breath.

“Filthy wizard?” Harry growled. “You stole those students’ magic! You stopped them from ever going to heaven, or wherever it is they go!”

The wand flicked again, and though Snape was still seething, his control was impeccable.

Harry watched, hard-pressed to feel bad for Filch. Not after what the man had done to the dead students.  He held out his hand and quietly summoned veritaserum, confident that there would be a bottle in the room somewhere, and that the Aurors would want it for their questioning.  They arrived a scant minute and a half later, taking in the scene with judging eyes.

Harry offered the phial, but the tallest Auror shook his head.

“He will be questioned at the Ministry. It’s the first murder case after the war; it must go through proper procedure.”

Snape snatched a piece of paper of his desk and wrote in huge letters.

-WHY-

The Auror, thinking the question was for him, began to answer about politics and corruption, until Snape slammed his hand down on the desk. He pointed at Filch, who had been hauled to his feet by two other Aurors.

“Why?” Filch asked, an ugly smiled taking over his face. His spotty beard reflected the light in patches, and his horrid teeth showed as he smiled. His lips were red, as he’d bitten down on them as Snape had cursed him.

“When the battle started she ordered the unworthy to the dungeons. Filch! Take those students down,” Filch said, his eyes glinting with madness. “And then they were flooded, and attacked. But she’s not so much better than me, is she? All it takes is a flick of a wrist. Witch, wizard, squib; we all die the same.”

“No one knew Voldemort would do that,” Harry said, his tone rough with anger.

“And you were next,” Filch said, ignoring Harry and staring at Snape. “The only man to face Voldemort for years and survive. Imagine the power.”

There was a mad edge to his voice, and Harry looked at him with disgust as the Aurors hauled him roughly out of the office. Harry turned to his side, unsure of what he’d see. Snape would likely still be angry, but Harry wasn’t certain if he would just shut down again, as Snape processed the absolutely senseless reason McGonagall had been killed over.

Snape’s face was a study in emotion. His cheeks were splotchy and red, as if he’d just had a good yell, but his eyes were damp with loss. He looked like a child whose toy had just been stolen, and his mother had told him to forget it.

Harry carefully reached out and touched Snape’s hand, snapping the man’s attention to himself.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked, looking straight at Snape. Before Snape could answer, and from the irritated look on the man’s face, Harry knew he was going to get quite the answer, Harry remembered about the loaf of bread that he’d bought earlier.

“Oops,” Harry muttered, fishing out the bag from his pocket. The bread had been placed in a weightless pocket Hermione had charmed into the back of his jumper, to serve as a rucksack when he didn’t want to carry one around. The pocket worked like those found at the back of a cycling jersey, but held much more and was charmed to be invisible.

He placed the slightly squashed pumpernickel down on the desk, and watched as Snape immediately snatched it up. It had the same Barbakan Bakery bag that Snape’s other bread had, and smelled just as delicious. Snape held it up and took a deep breath of the rye, the anger leaving his face as he did so.

He gave Harry a slight nod, answering Harry’s question and posing another. It took him a moment to write out the question, and Harry was inexplicably nervous as he waited.

-Did you purchase this for me? In Manchester?-

Harry didn’t miss how Snape was holding tightly to the bag.

“Of course I did,” Harry answered, puzzled as to why Snape would ask. Who else would he have gotten it for? “That’s where I was, when I figured out it was Filch.”

Snape nodded again, and pointed to the stairs that led to his personal quarters. Harry caught the complicated wand movements as Snape set wards on his office, but didn’t pay too close attention to them. He was already in the wards, and for the first time since the final battle, felt fully safe within the castle walls.

Snape put the bread down on the edge of the chesterfield instead of opening it, and walked toward his bed. He sat down heavily on the edge, swaying slightly, and Harry remembered that Snape likely hadn’t had anything to eat since before they’d left for the dinner.

Taking a chance, Harry stood beside the bed and with one finger, traced along the side of Snape’s face and hooked his hair behind his ear. Snape’s fingers were clenched tightly to the edge of the mattress, and he looked up at Harry with guarded eyes.

“I wasn’t mocking you earlier,” Harry said, leaving himself open for legilimency, if that’s what Snape wanted. Snape said nothing, and Harry didn’t feel the intrusion of legilimency, but then again, he’d never felt it as a younger student and was fairly certain Snape had done it then, too. Snape’s face relaxed after a moment though, and Harry moved to squeeze his shoulder.

“I’ll make some sort of dinner with the bread, you can go have a shower,” Harry offered, already moving back to fetch the bread. He heard a sharp intake of breath and winced, knowing he’d said something stupid already.

“I’m not calling you greasy,” Harry hastily explained, hoping the storm building on Snape’s face would fade as quickly as it had come. “You’ve been cooped up in bed for a day, and we both smell like the castle. I just thought it might make you feel better.”

Snape still scowled at him, but he did manage to push himself off the bed and toward the spiral stairs to the washroom. Harry pretended not to notice, and busied himself with the bread and some cheese.

Two hours later, the bread and cheese were nothing but crumbs on the plate, and there were bits of notebook paper all over the bed. Harry had learned that the bread was the one treat Snape had gotten with his mother when he’d returned from Hogwarts for the summers. And that when his mother had died, McGonagall had been the one to support him when things were rough. He also learned that McGonagall had been married before, and that she would never choose to remain at Hogwarts as a ghost, because her husband would have been waiting for her.

In return, Harry had shared some of his experiences during his year on the run with Snape, and told him about the cupboard he’d had while growing up. He’d talked about his future, how he had no desire to become an Auror any longer, and they’d also discussed the procedure to help heal Snape’s voice. Snape seemed far more concerned about the procedure than Harry did about his lack of plans for the future, but then, if Harry had to face a needle to the throat, he’d likely be bloody worried too.

When Snape tired of talking, he waved his hand to banish all the papers and started to settle down into the bed. Harry took it as a hint to get up and move over to his position on the couch, but was stayed by Snape’s watchful eyes.

“Do you want me to sleep on the couch?” Harry quietly asked. Snape kept his eyes on him for a moment, and then very deliberately reached over to the phial of dreamless sleep that was on his bedside cabinet. With one hand he flicked open the drawer, and dropped the bottle inside.

Harry took that to mean no.

Once they’d settled in, Snape was still firmly wrapped up on his own side of the bed, and Harry hyperaware of how close the man was to him. How close, and how tense.  Harry rolled to his side, facing Snape, determined to finally get some sleep. He remembered what Ron had written in his letter, and carefully stretched his arm out so that it was resting against the curve of Snape’s back. It took a few moments, but Harry smiled as he felt Snape suddenly release his tension and relax back against Harry’s arm.

….

The next morning was stormy and raining outside, though it was nothing compared to the worked up pacing of Snape in his quarters.

-Why must I be in my underpants!- Snape wrote, his lips pursed in frustration. Potter, the irritatingly comforting boy, was sitting in his spot on the bed. He was propped up against the headboard, and there was an open area with the blankets pushed down, right in front of him.

“So you won’t do a runner when you see the needle,” Potter answered, and the dratted boy was trying not to smile.

-I won’t. I do not back down on my decisions,- Snape replied, his nervousness seeping over a bit into anger.

“I know you don’t,” Potter said, and there was no trace of amusement in his voice now. “But you do need to be relaxed for this. Come here.”

Snape grumbled in his mind, but did move closer to the bed. In a flurry of movement he removed his outer robe and slipped into the bed, before Potter could get any sort of look at his body. Which was ridiculous, as he was now sitting against Potter’s chest, and was as close to the man as he’d ever been before.

-Where is Poppy?- Snape asked, clutching tightly to the notebook.

“In your office, waiting for the okay to come in,” Potter answered. “Lean up a bit.”

Snape did, wondering why Potter was pushing him away when he’d been so adamant on the treatment. But Potter just removed his shirt, and Snape was taken back at how warm the boy’s chest was when he was pulled back against it.

“You know, if you were anyone else, I’d tell you to just have a wank right now,” Potter said, his low chuckle vibrating across Snape’s shoulders as his hands moved down Snape’s arms. Snape tensed, cursing at his body not to betray any confidences, but he could already feel the gooseflesh on his arms and knew Potter could too.

Potter’s hands moved to his wrists, and Snape shut his eyes as he tried to stop the shiver that went through his body.

“It’s all right,” Potter murmured. “I’m just going to give a bit of a massage, for you to relax.”

Snape tortured himself further, concentrating on his back, and wondering if it was just an awkward bunch in Potter’s jeans he could feel, or if it was something stirring within the jeans. Potter then hit a sensitive spot on the inside of Snape’s wrist, and Snape instinctively raised his knees slightly. The bed sheet propped up over his lap, and Snape relaxed slightly now that his interest wouldn’t be so easily noticed.

As it turned out, Potter wasn’t as stupid as he thought.

“Unless,” Potter started, his hands abandoning Snape’s and his voice very roughened, “that is the sort you’d like.”

His hands tentatively came back to Snape’s chest, and slowly slipped down, thumbs brushing teasingly over Snape’s nipples. Snape’s head relaxed back onto Potter’s shoulder, and though his mouth tipped open, Snape was grateful that no sound escaped. Not that he could have said anything, but a gasp most certainly would have given him away.

Potter was on to the game anyway.

Snape’s hand clung to Potter’s thigh as the hands continued to lightly flutter down his chest, fingertips twirling in the hair on his chest and tummy. The bed sheet no longer hid Snape’s interest, and he felt a perverse sort of pleasure knowing that it was definitely Potter’s cock digging into his back, and not simply the flies of his jeans.

Potter may have learned to lie for his own survival over the past year, but Snape was rather certain now that Harry had been honest in his interest.

“Sorry it’s going to be quick,” Harry whispered into his ear, and Snape had no intention of writing out that it had been nothing for ten years, so quick was fine. “But I want to take my time when I can hear you actually make noise.”

Harry’s nimble and determined fingers slipped under the band of his boxer briefs, and Snape braced ever so slightly for the cutting comments he remembered in his youth. His cock curved awkwardly to the left, his balls hung down much lower than anyone else’s he’d been with, his penis dribbled far more pre-come than necessary.

But Harry said nothing, and his fingertips found the pre-come without hesitation, swirling it around and eliciting a tiny gasp from Snape. His fingers gripped just as strongly as Snape’s normally did, and his rhythm, though slightly faster than Snape’s usual, varied just enough to bring Snape to the edge quickly. He felt Harry’s other hand lifting his balls, and waited for the one last comment he always remembered, the one that had cost him an entire summer experimenting with depilatory potions. It never came, and as Harry’s hand slithered confidently through Snape’s hair and pressed against his hole, Snape bucked and spurted all over his stomach.

“Ffff…” Snape exhaled, releasing his clenching fingers from Harry’s thigh.

“Sorry to rush this,” Harry mumbled, casting a quick cleaning charm over them both, and covering Snape’s lap fully with the blankets. “Madam Pomfrey!”

Snape barely had a second to blink, to register the ‘Christ you were hot’ that was whispered into his ear, as the mediwitch bustled into the room with a tray. She was all business, and must have prepared everything while she waited in the office. She eyed Snape’s chest for a second, and Snape felt a flush of embarrassment as he realised it likely was reddened from arousal, and that the hair had probably be toyed with in peculiar ways.

He felt Harry’s hands gently cupping his cheek and pulling his head back to rest on Harry’s shoulder again. It exposed his neck horribly, and while Snape hated it, he remembered only moments earlier doing the same as Harry had fondled him. He focused on that and that only, feeling Harry’s legs keeping him cradled close, and one of Harry’s arms wrapped protectively around his chest.

Snape kept his eyes closed, but he couldn’t help flinching when he felt the needle. A tear escaped from his eye, and he wanted to pull away badly, use magic to expel the sharp pierce as it pushed through the cartilage. That was a new, intimate level of pain, one that reminded him of the Dark Mark, and when it had been burnt into his skin, seemingly down to the bone.

The burning sensation stayed, and his throat felt like it was ten degrees hotter than it should be. He felt panic starting to edge around his mind, as he’d read about the procedure back in May after he’d mostly recovered from the snake bites, and Snape could not remember ever reading about such a reaction.

“Massage his throat, Harry,” Pomfrey suddenly said, and Snape opened his eyes to realise that the needle had already been removed. A pot of some sort of salve had been held out in front of him, though Snape could not bring his eyes to focus enough to read the label. Whatever it was smelled faintly of aloe and eucalyptus, and Snape’s shoulders started to relax as Harry massaged the salve into his throat. It was cold, almost to the point of freezing, and provided instant relief.

“How long until we know?” Harry asked, his comforting grip on Snape not loosening.

“A few minutes,” Pomfrey answered, watching them both carefully. Snape suddenly had the horrible realisation that she likely knew exactly what they’d done to relax him.

“None of that, Severus,” Pomfrey quietly said, patting his arm. She didn’t explain, despite Harry’s question, and Snape felt slightly better. Pomfrey had been at the school nearly as long as Minerva McGonagall had, and if she didn’t care, it was unlikely that the other tenured professors would.

It was finally deemed long enough for the potion to have worked, and Snape was given a drink of a suspiciously bright blue liquid. It had the same icy soothing feeling as the salve, but the taste left nearly everything to be desired.

“What the hell is that?” Snape rasped, his voice rough with disuse.

The arms around him squeezed tightly, and he could feel Harry’s heart beating against his back.

“It worked.”

“That was revenge from every patient who has taken a potion of yours in the hospital wing,” Pomfrey said, with a smile. She stood and began to pack up the tray, satisfied that her task had been successful.

“Yes, it worked,” Snape said, wincing slightly at how poorly his voice sounded. It was almost as if he was just getting over a strong case of laryngitis.  He twisted his shoulders against Harry’s arms, getting them to loosen slightly. “Let me up, so I can properly see Madam Pomfrey out.”

Snape started to turn, to put his feet out, but Harry laughed and squeezed his arm.

“You’re not wearing trousers. I’m sure she can find her way out.”

Snape snapped his mouth shut, unsure whether to blast Harry for revealing that, or mutter excuses to save face with his staff. Fortunately, Madam Pomfrey had the unconcerned professionalism of years of being a mediwitch and merely waved her hand.

“I shall find my own way out. Take care of him Mr Potter, you know the follow up.”

“Pardon?” Snape asked, turning and raising his eyebrow at Harry. It used to work as a threat, but Snape was well aware that the boy was hardly cowed into anything anymore.

“Yes ma’am,” Harry said, utterly unashamed that he was shirtless and in bed with the Headmaster. For a healing treatment, of course, but Snape knew he wasn’t embarrassed about what had happened just before that, either.

“And Severus,” Pomfrey added, as she had the door open and was halfway through. “Shall we expect a lovely speech from you tomorrow?”

Snape tilted his head slightly, and felt the bottom of his stomach flip as he remembered Harry telling him when Minerva’s funeral was. The blankets moved around his legs, and Snape felt Harry’s foot rubbing slowly against his shin, in a comforting manner. And then Snape realised that this wasn’t just a one-off for him, that Harry had never intended it to be just that.

“Yes,” Snape answered, his voice surprisingly strong. “You can expect one.”

He leaned back against Harry again as Pomfrey left with a pleased nod. Snape didn’t plan on getting out of bed for the rest of the morning, but this time, it wasn’t the overwhelming feeling of sadness keeping him there.

“Why are you still dressed?” Snape asked, working his jaw as he enunciated properly.

“Just checking that we’re alone,” Harry replied, a smirk to his face as he reached for his wand.

“Of course we are. You saw her leave,” Snape replied, but it wasn’t the door that Harry was looking at. The boy seemed to glance all around the room, looking toward the corners and the upper loft.

“I did,” Harry evasively said. Snape didn’t have the chance to ask who else Harry was looking for, as he banished the rest of their clothing seconds later, and did things to Snape that utterly took away all rational thought.


End file.
